tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225Fri, 01 Dec 2017 10:53:58 +0000dissident arts festivalLeft Forumprotest song"Ballad for the Americans""Old Man River"1960s9/11 anniversaryBeatlesBrecht ForumCommunist PartyElliot SharpFreedom SingersHUACHarlan County USAHazel DickensJohn CageJohn LennonJohn PietaroJohn ZornKarl BergerMAtewanMay DayMusicircusPaul RobesonRadio NoirSNCCSong CatcherStone Workshop OrchestraWill KaufmanWoody GuthrieWorld Trade CenterYoko Onoavant gardebirthdayblacklistcivil rightscultureemergency labor meetingfree jazzimprovmatt jonesnew musicpeace movementrevolutionary culturerockrod serlingroulettetelevisiontwilight zoneunion songTHE CULTURAL WORKER by John Pietarohttp://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/noreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)Blogger138125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-6757182201017130100Mon, 27 Nov 2017 04:46:00 +00002017-11-26T20:46:55.398-08:00Essay: IKUE MORI: Outside Under Ground<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>"<i>NYC Jazz Record", December 2017, cover story</i></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mbg03OLOMm0/WhuYolV2RLI/AAAAAAAAB-s/xx612BihxgE596YTT2FyG03ZxCVCib1KQCLcBGAs/s1600/jazz%2Brecord%2Bmori%2Bcover.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="745" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mbg03OLOMm0/WhuYolV2RLI/AAAAAAAAB-s/xx612BihxgE596YTT2FyG03ZxCVCib1KQCLcBGAs/s1600/jazz%2Brecord%2Bmori%2Bcover.jpg" width="248" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Ikue Mori: Outsider Under Ground</b><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">By John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">In 1977 a New York-bound flight from Tokyo carried a youthful Ikue Mori to more than just a new city. Mori was fulfilling a promise she’d made to herself as a restless art student back home, seeking a new life. But the awakening was far wider than expected. Priced out of her initial destination of the West Village, Mori found herself on the Lower East Side just in time for the turbulence of punk rock, downtown experimentation and the boil-over of urban decay. &nbsp;‘Fun city’ in the throes of bankruptcy and unrest. “It could be grim”, she explained, “but it was New York, where I’d wanted to be for years. I always felt I was in a foreign country when I was in Japan”. Needing no time to adjust to her new surroundings, Mori found a flat and immersed herself in the confluence of culture and change. “No one wanted to live here at the time, so it was easy to find a cheap place near everything. I still live in that same apartment today”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Mori was immediately drawn to the whirlwind of music about her. “On my first night in New York, a friend got us tickets to see David Bowie and Iggy Pop at the Palladium” she recalled enthusiastically. “What a gift!” She became a fixture in the city’s still new underground nightlife then focused at CBGB and Max’s Kansas City, hosts of the punk movement’s formative years. “I had been listening to Jimi Hendrix and the Doors in Japan, but suddenly I was exposed to these new sounds. I loved Television”, she added, referring to the indie rock quartet which featured Ayler-influenced lead guitarists and guttural vocals echoing the streets. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">But it wasn’t all rock music. This underground creative tapestry embraced edgy free jazz, expansive visual and performance art, and radical poetry and film, all made anew within the urgent cross-fertilization downtown. Under the banner of what would soon be titled ‘no wave’ culture, artists of each discipline forayed into the next. “One night I saw a performance of (alto saxophonist) James Chance with (poet/guitarist) Lydia Lunch”, Mori explained. “After a friend of mine joined their band Teenage Jesus, I began attending rehearsals and got to meet others on the scene. I met Arto (Lindsay, guitarist/vocalist) and Robin (Crutchfield, organist/vocalist) along with some people from the band Mars. They were all jamming at the studio and asked me to join in” Out of need more than interest, she moved to the drumset in the back of the room. And suddenly, she was playing. “That night, I picked up drums for the first time in my life”. Mori soon found herself at the center of a brand new happening, a reimagining of established rules and mores. “Arto and Robin asked me to join their new band, DNA. </span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">Everyone was looking for something new. We weren’t talking about technique then. It was being in the right place. I was surrounded by rock musicians in Tokyo but never thought I could be in a band. It was a discouraging imbalance, especially in the rock world at the time. Especially for a woman drummer. But in New York, 1977, all kinds of outsiders were getting together. I wasn’t trying to play like anyone else and Arto wasn’t either. I was very tom-tom heavy in the beginning –there must’ve been an influence from Japanese taiko drumming”</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">DNA sported layers of “noise” with musical structures inspired by Arto Lindsay’s heritage in Brazil and Mori’s Japanese culture. After purchasing a 5-piece Ludwig drumkit for $100. from Anton Fier of the Lounge Lizards, later Golden Palominos, Mori and the band created a repertoire of carefully arranged pieces that would come to define the no wave genre. DNA was one of four downtown ensembles chosen for the Brian Eno-produced “No New York” album (1978) which has since become legendary. It was the drummer’s initial experience in a recording studio, but her primary recollection of it was Eno’s length of time spent trying to get the perfect bass drum sound. “He never said much”, she recalled, we just played and got out. The recording didn’t do us justice. It was a hard thing to capture”. Still, “No New York” was seen as shocking to many listeners. In its brash radicalism, the album gave license to musical experimentalists who’d come to the avant garde by way of punk culture, not post-modern classical music or jazz; more than a few of the recording artists had no history as musicians. Critics were polarized and the album was even beleaguered by other no wave progenitors who’d been overlooked by Eno. Listening to DNA’s segments on the album, one hears the breathless rush of the city in darkness, an urgency embodied in Mori’s throbbing pulsations, unexpected tacits, stirring accents and driving patterns woven through Lindsay’s pained vocals. The band went on to record a further single and an EP, but, again, Mori stated the essence of the band was elusive. “None of the recordings actually sound the way we did live”. With a final 1983 gig at CBGB, the trio’s members went their separate ways, though Lindsay was included in some of the drummer’s later endeavors.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Almost immediately after the dissolution of DNA, Mori began work with John Zorn, the ubiquitous saxophonist/improviser/composer. “It was totally new playing experience for me”, she recalled. “DNA may have sounded free, but the songs were played the same way every time. The improvising music scene was eye-opening, mind-blowing. John was such an influence, not only his playing but his organization of concerts. And all of those revolutionary musicians like (percussionist) Cyro Baptista, (guitarist) Fred Frith, (cellist) Tom Kora and (guitarist and improvisation music theorist) Derek Bailey. Just listening to Derek is amazing. Amazing. He was such a beautiful musician”. Mori’s place in the Zorn cadre saw her inclusion in noted album “Locus Solis” (1983) and a wide array of others led by the saxophonist. He also signed her to his Tzadik record label for which she went on to record numerous CDs. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">The outgrowth of her musical expanse brought Mori not deeper into the sphere of drumming but into that of electronics. Early experimentation with an inexpensive Casio drum machine alongside her drum kit developed as the medium itself grew. “My very first experience with drum machine programming in a recording was the "Mumbo Jumbo" album by Jim Staley. It was a trio with Bill Frisell”. For that project, Mori attempted to take the machine out of the repetition mode it was known for and have it reflect more of the playing she’d been doing on the drumset. “But the drum machine then was still very limited, so I needed to play some drums with it. With time, I began adding more drum machine and less drums. By the end of 1990 I was playing three drum machines with multi effects through a mixer and no actual drums”. Within a decade, the full spectrum changed as Mori began using a laptop computer toward a limitless sound palette. “With the laptop, I can assign sounds to each key-pad and actually play it as a tuned instrument, not just one of drum sounds”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Over the course of 15 albums as a leader since 1995, and a seemingly endless list of work in the projects of other musicians, Mori’s use of digital sounds has taken on a new level of musicality; many collaborators now call on her almost exclusively to play in this realm. When asked if electronics had fully eclipsed the drumset, Mori clarified: “No, that chapter is really not over, but it’s infrequent. I played drums again--alongside my laptop--when (bassist) Kim Gordon asked me to play with Body Head&nbsp;a few years ago. I also played drums in Yoshimi O’s twin drum project, but it’s not a focus for me”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Mori’s resume also includes time spent with Butch Morris, Dave Douglas, Erik Friedlander, Ensemble Modern and Zorn’s Electric Masada in addition to a duo with harpist Zeena Parkins, and the acoustic-electronic trio with pianist Sylvie Courvoisier and percussionist Susie Ibarra, Mephista. And within all of this technology, Mori rediscovered her first means of artistic expression. “My earlier interest of creating hand-made materials has come back after all those years of using digital-only processing in my visual art projects. Playing drums was also part of those interests. Drumming allowed me to add physical aspects to performance”.&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">This year Mori released a pair of albums for which she’s been tirelessly touring. Finally back in New York, she’s preparing for a weekend of concerts at the New School (December 15 and 16) featuring Craig Taiborn, Christian Wolff, Joey Barron and a special guest she was not at liberty to disclose at press time. By the time this paper hits the clubs, Mori should just about be coming down from the high of her November residency at the Stone, one which boasts downtown history in its line-up. Mori simply describes her week at Zorn’s space as “one big improvising party with a lot of old friends”. With the passage of time, the avant becomes the norm and the East Village sports luxury living. With a vengeance, the denizens of the underground no longer languish on the outside.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2017/11/essay-ikue-mori-outside-under-ground.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-5459296985452970Mon, 27 Nov 2017 04:43:00 +00002017-11-26T20:43:57.789-08:00Film review : HORACE TAPSCOTT: MUSICAL GRIOT<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>"NYC Jazz Record" </i>November, 2017</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HORACE TAPSCOTT: MUSICAL GRIOT<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">Directed and produced by Barbara McCullough</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Film review by John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">Horace Tapscott may be one of the music’s best kept secrets. Coming of age in an LA far removed from the “cool” West Coast of Lennie Tristano and Lee Konitz, the pianist/composer forged an ethnically-identified, politically fearless vision. His leadership cast a post-modern genre that foresaw much of jazz’ avant garde as well as its infusion into Black Liberation. By the late ‘60s, Tapscott’s Pan-African People's Arkestra served as the house band for the Black Panther Party. The late Will Connell, many years Tapscott’s music librarian, in later discussions with anyone who’d listen, championed the scope of the Union of God's Musicians and Artists' Ascension, the leader’s educational foundry of 1961. Tapscott’s was an art of pride and legacy; it’s no small irony that bold activism led to a career shredded by blacklisting.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Barbara McCullough’s documentary focuses on Tapscott the inspiration as much as the musician. Culled together from interview and concert footage shot over a 25-year period, the tale of this woefully under-recognized artist comes to light; the filmmaker’s is the silent voice as Tapscott tells his own story over decades. Sections of the film stem from a lecture the pianist gave in the 1990s, interspersed with discussion segments between Tapscott, journalist Greg Tate, poet K. Curtis Lyle, Don Cherry and Dr. Samuel Browne, the legendary music teacher at LA’s Jefferson High School who mentored Dexter Gordon, Chico Hamilton and a phalanx of others including Tapscott. The concept of guiding the next generation was ingrained into the pianist early on: “My responsibility primarily was preservation of the art. The Black arts in particular. Something had to be done so you can touch and feel it….”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Tapscott’s vision into the next stage the music would take, including large ensemble free improvisation and multi-disciplinary collaborations, is evident. And his Underground Musicians Association, a heartily experimental aggregation, pioneered the later DIY concept. Of this indie effort, Tapscott stated: “We called it garage music: the kind of thing you only play for yourselves. The police came and stopped us, said we were getting the people worked up”. Appropriately, the radicalism inherent in both Tapscott’s mentorship and performances are established herein. He stated: “The music changed behind the bombing of the church in Alabama. We started playing music by Black composers. It helped free our people. This hooked us up with the Black Panthers, Angela Davis, H Rapp Brown…and the FBI and CIA”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Considering the resurgence in revolutionary philosophy, Horace Tapscott’s music—now free of Cold War shackles--may finally be having its day. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2017/11/film-review-horace-tapscott-musical.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-1781306409207829803Thu, 12 Oct 2017 03:45:00 +00002017-10-18T19:04:11.383-07:00Book Review: GOOD GUY JAKE/BUEN CHICO JAKE<h2><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">New children’s book tells story of giving, proclaims union justice</span></span></h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S_-_YV5RHX0/Wd7ko5I75MI/AAAAAAAAB9c/J_ex9gL-Sqs4dE87Sti0G9SsfSzvVd09QCLcBGAs/s1600/GGJ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S_-_YV5RHX0/Wd7ko5I75MI/AAAAAAAAB9c/J_ex9gL-Sqs4dE87Sti0G9SsfSzvVd09QCLcBGAs/s320/GGJ.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><i>Good Guy Jake/Buen Chico Jake</i>, Hardball Press</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Book review by John Pietaro</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">“Good Guy Jake”/“Buen Chico Jake” </span></i></b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Written by Mark Torres; Illustrations by Yana Murashko; Translation by Madelin Arroyo Romero (Hardball Press, 2017 www.hardballpress.com)<b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Hardball Press is an independent publisher founded by writer and union activist Tim Sheard which specializes in books with humanitarian, pro-labor messages. Eighth in Hardball’s series of children’s books is “Good Guy Jake”/ “Buen Chico Jake”, just in time for the holiday season. Here’s the tale of a New York City Sanitation Worker who collects discarded toys from the trash in order to repair them and bring them to needy children living in a shelter. Like all of Hardball’s releases, “Jake” is a story told bilingually, with Spanish language translations of each English language paragraph, hence, this volume could be the perfect gift for the young child in your life who speaks either language. More so, the Hardball Press catalog, thoughtfully translated, is an excellent means to introduce children to the other language. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">The rich, colorful artwork is another standard Hardball has set high, and another example of how the publisher always hit the mark. “Jake” is no exception: the characters, circumstances and backgrounds are appealing if not a little compelling to the eye. Of course, the concept of multi-culturalism is a staple of each book and even the casual reader notes the details of skin tone, dress and hairstyle appropriate to a character’s culture. And while each release thus far has included strong pro-worker statements of unity within a carefully spun plot, this latest volume takes this concept to the next step. In the book Sanitation Worker Jake is fired from his job for taking the discarded toys in the trash, a violation of city regulations. The author brings in the reality of the grievance process, right up to arbitration. The hearing is held a week before Christmas and Jake’s character witnesses include many of the children he’s brought refurbished toys to as well as their parents, testifying to the difference Jake has made in their lives. This peek into the often grueling struggle between union and management is not only unique to children’s literature, but something rarely seen in novels for any age reader. For parents who suffer the indignity of wrongful discipline or termination from a job and are awaiting arbitration, “Good Guy Jake”/“Buen Chico Jake” is a powerful tool to allow children to understand what’s happening as much as it continues the message of giving to others. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Hardball Press books are available directly from the company’s website </span><a href="http://www.hardballpress.com/"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">www.hardballpress.com</span></a><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"> or via Amazon and—best of all—via indie bookstores everywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2017/10/book-review-good-guy-jakebuen-chico-jake.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-2160445887199889514Sat, 23 Sep 2017 19:20:00 +00002017-09-23T12:20:28.835-07:00Two-CD review/essay: MUSIC AS A WEAPON<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><b><i>MUSIC AS A WEAPON</i></b></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;"><b><i>Recent releases in the US shout down hate</i></b></span></h2><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">By John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NJiZ_c2s38E/Wcayb8RgOZI/AAAAAAAAB9M/8PzpZCrRXbY3VOxZGg4Gj675px2l7lOWQCLcBGAs/s1600/trump%2B%2Bhides.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="620" height="199" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NJiZ_c2s38E/Wcayb8RgOZI/AAAAAAAAB9M/8PzpZCrRXbY3VOxZGg4Gj675px2l7lOWQCLcBGAs/s320/trump%2B%2Bhides.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Short-Finger Vulgarian" himself</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">In what feels like an eternity to most Americans, Donald Trump’s reign is now in its eighth month. One productive outcome of this administration is the revival of progressive activism in opposition to it. The movements around Occupy Wall Street, Black Lives Matter and other leftward groupings have embraced the struggles of women, immigrants, the LGBT community, indigenous peoples and environmentalists in a spectacular series of demonstrations around the United States. Most recently, protest epicenters have sprung up in the face of far-Right gatherings with neo-nazis, klansmen and other white supremacists encountered by throngs of anti-fascists who’d had enough.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Where fights for social justice exist, so too are artists inspiring the up-rise. The good fight has always relied on its cultural workers and in the annals of the Left, countless creative activists have been so dedicated. Langston Hughes (1902-1967) stands out among the standard-bearers of revolutionary poetry, a supreme advocate of Black culture in a period dogged by racism that was thoroughly institutionalized. His poetry affectively captured the rhythms and vibrations of jazz, the pained holler of the blues, the conundrum of the human experience and the wondrousness of words. Charlie Haden (1937-2014) was influenced by the Old Left that elevated the likes of Hughes, Paul Robeson, Woody Guthrie and Zora Neal Hurston, but was a marked figure of the later generation. A bassist of rare talent and vision, after helping to pioneer free jazz under the tutelage of Ornette Coleman, he founded the Liberation Music Orchestra which expanded the language of fight-back in new and daring ways. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">In these trying months of 2017, many artists have committed to the cause of change. Here is a look at two ensembles whose statements are threaded through the inspiration of Messrs. Hughes and Haden.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">1)<span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">&nbsp; </span></span></span></i></b><!--[endif]--><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Langston Hughes: The Dream Keeper </span></span></i></b><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">(Mode Avant, 2017)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Eric Mingus, voice; David Amram, piano; Groove Bacteria and special guests; Larry Simon, musical director<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Langston Hughes was, inarguably, one of the most relevant American poets of the twentieth century. Embattled by intolerable racism and homophobia, Hughes defiantly stood as the leading figure of the Harlem Renaissance. More so, he successfully wrapped his high art around the vernacular of African American speech and jazz traditions, all the while writing some of the most revolutionary journalism in the pages of black liberation newspaper <i>“The Crisis”</i> and the Communist Party’s magazine <i>“New Masses”</i>. The biting edge of radicalism would not be lost on his poetry, a point leapt upon by the opportunistic members of the House Un-American Activities Committee as the chill of Cold War raked over the USA as early as 1947.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">On <b>The Dream Keeper</b>, Eric Mingus pays homage to Hughes, reciting powerful works of the poet. This son of jazz royalty is a gifted vocalist and poet in his own right, so his emotive impressions of Hughes’ words are indeed visceral. Much of the recitation is set against the compelling improvisations of pianist David Amram, who’d hung out with the Beats and carries the cache of collaborations with both Hughes and Jack Kerouac. But the other major musical voice here is guitarist Larry Simon, whose resume runs from John Zorn and Lester Bowie to poets David Pinsky and Ed Sanders. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">The album opens with Hughes’ most famous early work, “The Weary Blues”, heard here as a Mingus/Amram duet. The pair aren’t just performing this piece, it could be said that they are breathing it, pulling the bluest strains through fingers, tongue and teeth. The title cut follows, featuring an expanded version of Simon’s band Groove Bacteria. At full strength it comprises Simon’s guitar and arrangement, Amram’s piano, soprano saxophonist Catherine Sikora, Native American flutist Cynthia Chatis, alto saxophonist Don Davis (doubling on contra alto clarinet), organist Scip Gallant, bassist Chris Stambaugh, drummer Mike Barron and percussionists Shawn Russell and Frank Laurino. Quite effectively, the listener moves through a sound journey with duos of voice/piano or voice/guitar alternating with aspects of the large ensemble.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Stand-out moments may be too hard to signify as the statements within are consistently stellar, but Sikora’s straining, lamenting cries on “The Dream Keeper” reeled me in immediately. Her horn is similarly heard in “Democracy”, part of a triple entente with Davis and Chatis, casting an almost electronic, crying, tearing sustain about Mingus’ voice. But listen--carefully now--to the power of Hughes’ words the inherently terrible timeliness they bear. Right now.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Democracy will not come<br />Today, this year<br />Nor ever<br />Through compromise and fear.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">-for more information see www.moderecords.com<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">2)<span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">&nbsp; </span></span></span></i></b><!--[endif]--><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Liberation Music Collective</span></span></i></b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">: REBEL PORTRAITURE </span>(Ad Astrum Records, Aug 2017)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">The Liberation Music Collective is a large ensemble engaging in relevant socio-political statements, the end result of which is earnest, well executed and carefully arranged. The band has taken on an admirably militant role in a time when the US is plagued by division, revitalized racism and escalated xenophobia among other offenses. Urgent concerns have lingered internationally since January. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Within the jazz canon, the free genre is the one most closely identified with revolutionary philosophy. The concept of <u>liberation</u> was vital to the development of that sound and school; as jazz matured into an avant garde vision, Black Liberation and the Black Arts Movement so developed and were deemed the reigning philosophy of most free jazz progenitors. Listening through this album, however, I hear no particular evidence of music so liberated. Music of the Left needn’t necessarily equate with free improvisation and there have been powerful examples of scored orchestral music or folk forms that spoke of the people’s fightback against oppression. Still, one comes to expect a stronger jazz connection and at least a bit of <i>fire music</i> in solo sections when the words ‘Liberation’ and ‘Music’ are part of a band’s title. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">As most readers will gather, the ensemble is named for the celebrated Liberation Music Orchestra founded by Charlie Haden and directed by Carla Bley in a time of pressing political import. The LMO’s first album included compositions by the uber-rad Brecht and Eisler as well as traditional songs of the Spanish Civil War as Haden et al cited contemporary struggles for peace, justice and equality in the format. Hell, Haden even wrote “Song for Che” as a feature of the band’s concerts. Soloists on that first record included Don Cherry, Dewey Redman and Gato Barbieri among other noted figures. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">While the sense of kinship toward this legendary ensemble is understandable, taking on such a handle is daring, to say the least. The Liberation Music Collective, on the other hand, is comprised of musicians and poets that will not be familiar to most. Led by two transplanted Chicagoans, bassist/vocalist Hannah Fidler and trumpet player Matt Riggen, both recent Indiana University grads, the band holds the enthusiasm of youth. Not to say that there’s not excellent, clean, professional musicianship on display here; there’s no loss of this. And the production by</span> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Kabir Sehgal is three-dimensional in scope. However, there is a loss of explosive nastiness, pointed retort and the utter of joy of unbridled protest in this array of horns and rhythm. Tempi are most often slow or moderato bearing layers of harmonies, swells and counter-point. Thick tapestries of drama testify but can become laden by the weight while meditative repeats make a few too many comebacks. The leaders embrace the lush orchestral aspects of Ellington, while ignoring Duke’s love for up-tempo, ass-kicking swing. From a musical perspective, this record could have benefited&nbsp;from a bit of an ass-kicking (sorry, maybe this is just a New York thing).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">But focusing on the heart of this effort, the socio-political, is central to the project. The band’s commitment to Black Lives Matter and the struggle for LGBTQ rights, Standing Rock, the Women’s March on Washington and the fight for survival of female war journalists, is deeply sincere (and their website includes important activist tool-kits listeners can easily endeavor. Bravo!). Liner notes clarify the dedication behind each piece, some of which range far into the past. The poetry rolls out at relevant points too, but can become somewhat obscured in the arrangements. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">One piece (“Iqra”) includes both hip hop and singing vocals. Glad to see the former represented within this music, but the attempt would have been stronger if an actual rapper was brought in for the hip hop spoken word. Though artists of all backgrounds have adopted and adapted to hip hop as an art form, performing it effectively requires a clear connection to it. This performance sounds overtly…white. Which raises a rather uncomfortable point in a review of a Leftie band: the official photo of the Liberation Music Collective on their website--a pic which is modeled on the familiar cover shot of the LMO, with band member’s standing or kneeling while holding a banner aloft—clarifies that all but one of the 18 or so members is a person of color. It’s hard to imagine that black or brown players aren’t available in Chicago, and as this project is specific to such noble causes, the band’s racial composition must be considered. An array of faces and cultures within any band is an important statement, but in one that has embraced the ethic of Haden’s vision, it should be vivid. Never for tokenism, but to bite back at the wholesale theft of African American culture and to set a model for moving forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">With this band’s fearless drive toward social change as well as clear skills of composition, arrangement and execution, the means to take on this project are there. Now, the ensemble needs to expand its pathos to illustrate righteous indignation if they are to operate under the guise of ‘Liberation Music’ <i>anything.</i> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">- for more information see www.liberationmusiccollective.com<o:p></o:p></span></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2017/09/two-cd-reviewessay-music-as-weapon.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-1349608542052824742Thu, 29 Jun 2017 04:49:00 +00002017-06-28T21:49:11.288-07:00Essay: SUMMER OF LOVE REDUX, All Over Again<div class="MsoTitle" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><b>SUMMER OF LOVE REDUX, All Over Again</b><o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">by John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ek3swYrnMtQ/WVSGUYkWO9I/AAAAAAAAB7s/7a0KaUkRuvYxm2RH80pzZr303Xg45MyRgCLcBGAs/s1600/summer-of-love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="496" data-original-width="620" height="256" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ek3swYrnMtQ/WVSGUYkWO9I/AAAAAAAAB7s/7a0KaUkRuvYxm2RH80pzZr303Xg45MyRgCLcBGAs/s320/summer-of-love.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: xx-small;">San Francisco, June 1967 (Mercury News)</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>This piece, a combined essay, recollection and review, was composed in late June, 2007, as the 40<sup>th</sup> anniversary of the Summer of Love had moved into public consciousness. I intended it as a piece for “Z”, a magazine I’d frequently been writing for at the time, but it was left unpublished until three years later when I established my blog The Cultural Worker and included this article within it’s archive. Somehow, with the passing of a decade and so much attention thrust upon the half-century mark of the Beatles’ </i>Sgt. Pepper<i> as well as that summer in question and its West Coast festival, my thoughts drifted back to this piece. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i>A bit of dusting is all it took, and upon reading it in light of the nightmare going on in the White House right now, I almost found myself a bit nostalgic for the Bush years. Almost. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i>In the wake of late 1960s’ mass uprisings, it’s clear that we can do a lot better than George W’s—or LBJ’s--mindless guffaws. But considering the crushing blows that civil rights, women’s rights, workers, the environment and TRUTH have taken in just a few miserable Trumpian months, reaching back to a time of relentless activism as a means of inspiration can only do us a hell of a lot of good. We cannot just flash the peace sign, we must believe it. Liberation must cease to be a concept and once again take on the role of tactic. And when we speak of taking the streets, we’d better mean that we are taking them back. There’s something happening here and it is frighteningly clear. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i>So, onto my now 10 year old article on the happenings of 1967, ‘Summer of Love Redux’ and take a few moments to consider how far we’ve both come and fallen.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Hey, so it’s been forty years since the Summer of Love. Wasn’t that a time? An illegal war coming to a raging boil, hatred of the US in many parts of the world, an ignorant lame duck southern president flailing about the White House, and of course rising popular unrest. I read the news today, oh boy, and its déjà vu all over again. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">But there’s more:&nbsp; how about the struggle against racism? Though the Voting Rights Act passed the year following the Summer of Love (natch), Americans can still be counted on to seek out blame in <i>other</i>. Oh, and the environment has also made a return. And Labor struggles are coming back, too, but now instead of workers throwing bricks at anti-war protestors, they’re often joining up with them---if this radicalism keeps up, we may grow back the union teeth we lost during the Cold War. Corporate America envisioned world domination during the 1960s and now of course there’s Wal-Mart. And while abortion is not currently illegal, given the climate, who knows how long that may be the case. Still, peace marches go on with earnest tenacity. <i>&nbsp;</i>And <i>&nbsp;I Spy</i> mentality is running rampant, but this time focusing on everyone instead of just the Commies. The Man from U.N.C.L.E. is reading my email. This may not exactly be COINTELPRO, but it nearly makes me feel nostalgic for it. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Speaking of nostalgia, what about the music of 1967? This summer marked the middle age, if you will, of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” as well as the debut albums of Jimi Hendrix, David Bowie, Pink Floyd, the Grateful Dead, the Band, the Velvet Underground, Donavan, Taj Mahal, Jefferson Airplane, the Bee Gees, the Buffalo Springfield, Procol Harum, Ten Years After, and the Doors. The Stones released “Their Satanic Majesties Request”. Traffic gave us “Dear Mr. Fantasy”.&nbsp; The Moody Blues took over the symphony orchestra and brought forth “Days of Future Past”. The Beatles also released the singles “All You Need is Love” and “Strawberry Fields Forever” shortly beforehand, offering both a theme to the summer’s proceedings as well as a backdrop for general tripping. All this while Aretha’s 45 RPM “Respect” was burning up the airwaves. Our pocket radios would never recover. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">And while ’67 also saw Brian Wilson walk out of the studio before he could finish his legendary masterwork, “Smile”, that year marked a change in popular music that would not be reversed—until we were force-fed daily Britney Spears reports on cable news shows. But I digress. Dylan began experimenting with the power of roots music in a Woodstock basement with the Band. His “John Wesley Harding” hit record stores later that year, as did the Band’s “Music from Big Pink”. And “Alice’s Restaurant” established the career of Arlo Guthrie, son of the man who made Dylan possible. All this while Dylan cohort Phil Ochs expanded his own palette by releasing “Pleasures of the Harbor”, an expansionist view of folk so different than “going electric”. This year also saw the coming of Ochs’ friend Victor Jara, the Chilean protest singer; neither Ochs nor Jara would survive the 70s or revel in the nostalgia. Neither would Otis Redding ---he was deeply relevant, making the scene in both R &amp; B and rock venues and penning classics that do not allow for stylistic boundaries. Likewise, in ‘67 Sly and the Family Stone were preparing for their first album, offering a fusion of everything—but now it all had groove. Ooooh, Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. Nuff said. And Blood Sweat and Tears were in rehearsal, as was an earlier version of Chicago, then called The Big Thing, forging the jazz-rock that screamed needles off of turn-tables.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The Electric Flag throbbed with the same vibe—edgy brass and woods laying it down for harrowing electric guitar solos--though from a more Blues-based approach. But then John Coltrane blew them all away with his “Live at the Village Vanguard Again”; jazz-rock couldn’t stand up to this. And&nbsp; Miles’s “Nefertiti” drove the point home. “Disraeli Gears” by Cream then took the Blues and turned them inside out, but Janis Joplin reclaimed the music, adding a southern authenticity forged through guttural overdrive.&nbsp; Primal scream therapy coming through your hi-fi. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Love beads may have lost some of their impact, but, shit, that was some great music. Recently we saw the 40<sup>th</sup>anniversary of Scott McKenzie’s hit “If You’re Going to San Francisco”, which&nbsp; had actually brought so many wannabes to Haight-Ashbury that most of the originals, like the Diggers and Dead, needed to consider moving on before long. But who could think of that detail, as the anniversary of the Monterey Pop Festival is all the rage? Here was the original benefit concert; a professionally organized be-in that featured some of the very best that rock and pop had to offer. Allen Ginsberg’s vision of an amorphous body of social change had been realized, for the better or worse. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The newly released fortieth anniversary edition CD makes full use of today’s technology (extra tracks and all re-mastered) while reminding us of exactly how we got here. The selections scorch their way through your speakers when they are not offering an ethereal, almost escapist means for us to relax. Hendrix, Joplin (with Big Brother), the Airplane, Mamas and the Papas, Butterfield, Simon and Garfunkel, Otis, the Flag, the Byrds, the Who! There’s Ravi Shankar’s mastery and Hugh Masakela’s multi-culti sounds. The usually mellow Association is actually kicking, while Booker T grooved us to death. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">This event, and the anniversary disc, demonstrate the power of song in a period of societal transition. Monterey gets overlooked in light of Woodstock, but its time to recognize the foundation the former laid for the latter’s realization of the youth movement. The musicians may not have always known it, but that summer they were singing the soundtrack to a painful, vital graduation. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><i>-John Pietaro is a writer and musician from New York<o:p></o:p></i></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2017/06/essay-summer-of-love-redux-all-over.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-6983990740855042140Wed, 07 Jun 2017 02:48:00 +00002017-06-06T19:48:28.105-07:00Obit: BERN NIX 1947-2017, the Wire magazine<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"><i>"The Wire"&nbsp;</i></span></h2><div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>https://www.thewire.co.uk/in-writing/essays/bern-nix-1947-2017-obituary-by-john-pietaro</i></span></div><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;">BERN NIX 1947-2017&nbsp;</span></h2><h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>John Pietaro recalls the Prime Time guitarist</i></span></h3><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JDNR7YUj1sI/WTdocBw9bdI/AAAAAAAAB2o/y8h1Rfy6QGcO-PS6qUObz9ZgqCfSA81ZgCLcB/s1600/Bern-nix-john.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="690" height="250" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JDNR7YUj1sI/WTdocBw9bdI/AAAAAAAAB2o/y8h1Rfy6QGcO-PS6qUObz9ZgqCfSA81ZgCLcB/s320/Bern-nix-john.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Bern Nix, 2017. Photo by John Pietaro</i></span></div><br /><b><i>Writer and musician John Pietaro on the “post-modern experimentalist embedded in the jazz tradition” who co-founded Ornette's Prime Time</i></b><br /><br />Bern Nix, the guitarist and founding member of Ornette Coleman’s Prime Time, died in his Manhattan home on 31 May. His unexpected passing fell just three months short of his 70th birthday.<br /><br />Nix was widely known as an original, a unique find even among the most avant of the avant garde. News of his loss spread like a firestorm among New York’s jazz community, and the grieved responses of friends and fans are legion. This veteran of Coleman’s legendary sphere contributed his singular instrumental voice to the music continuum, standing as a postmodern experimentalist embedded in the jazz tradition. Nix’s speaking voice was just as intriguing, gently urbane in defiance of an almost sphynx-like repose. His welcoming tone softly beckoned one into his line of logic: Bern enjoyed discussing the nuances not only of music, but philosophy, art, history and radically left politics. A sparkle overtook his eyes as he listened to those in his purview, then raising a finger to signal his entry into the discussion, he quietly came to own the room. As was the case with his guitar playing, when he spoke softly, the focus stayed on him. Bern’s stage whisper was most effective.<br /><br />Born in Toledo, Ohio, arguably on 21 September 1947 (some bios list his birth year as 1950), Bern Nix was introduced to music in childhood and began playing the guitar at age 11. Driven toward the jazz guitarists of the time, he listened intently to Wes Montgomery, Jimmy Rainey and Barney Kessel, but while encompassing the full canon, he came upon the early electric lead guitarist Charlie Christian who remained a particular inspiration. Nix later moved to Boston to study at the Berklee College of Music in preparation for a career in the mainstream. “I always had a penchant for straight-ahead jazz guitar playing,” he told me in 2013, “and I play that still. Before I worked with Ornette, I never thought I would be in Prime Time. But this music allows the harmony to shift, like chase-chords, moving through and beyond. It is in and it is out…”<br /><br />The offer to work with the framer of free jazz was too much to pass up for the budding young guitarist. In 1975, after graduation, he came to New York and successfully auditioned for the job with Coleman, replacing James Blood Ulmer. Nix came to work closely with the master in the developing of Prime Time, Coleman’s vehicle for bringing his harmolodic theory into a funk-oriented, heavily amplified milieu. As was the case with the fervour raised by Ornette’s original quartet in 59, many audiences were critical of the new sound, claiming it to be a “sell-out”. Nix never agreed. “The ‘swing’ was always there,” he recalled. “This music is an extension of the early jazz tradition where the sense of freedom, the improvisation, was constantly creative. Here the band’s roles are never static and are always shifting, evolving…”<br /><br />Nix became a core member of Prime Time, a focal point of its critically acclaimed debut LP, Dancing in Your Head, which also brandished the spectre of The Master Musicians Of Joujouka in its grooves. The album was utterly epic. Follow-ups Body Meta (1976), Of Human Feelings (1979), In All Languages (1987) and Virgin Beauty (1988) were nothing if not wonderfully controversial. New music circles everywhere paid heed to the band that begat whole schools of downtown thought. But even as he served as its first lead guitarist, Nix began working with others then populating the Lower East Side, crafting fusions of genre unique to the time and place. He toured with no waver James Chance in 1981 and performances with Sedition and Sabir Mateen followed, but the 1984 debut of The Bern Nix Trio offered the guitarist a personalised pool of creativity. The Trio also allowed Nix to maintain a public profile as Coleman embarked on a strike against the recording industry, protesting corporate stranglehold.<br /><br />Nix’s band wouldn’t record until 1993’s Alarms And Excursions, by which time several changes of line-up occurred (bassist Fred Hopkins and drummer Newman Baker are on the record), but its core maintained consistency: pure Bern Nix.<br /><br />Though the Trio continued as a force, The Bern Nix Quartet grew from within and in recent years became Nix’s primary ensemble. Bassist Francois Grillot, multi-instrumentalist Matt Lavelle (trumpet, alto clarinet, flugelhorn) and drummer Reggie Sylvester cast an acoustic format that straddled the boundaries of free jazz, new composition and, yes, funk. Nix’s solos comprised of quivering single notes, barked dyads and chordal runs up and down and then across his instrument’s neck. He toyed with repetitions before tossing them aside for lines of advanced tonality. Kandinsky-esque staccato phrases and slippery runs alternated. Technique for Nix can be boiled down to legitimacy torn asunder by design.<br /><br />Pertinent collaborations with poet Jayne Cortez, and downtown stalwarts Jemeel Moondoc, John Zorn, Kip Hanrahan, Elliot Sharp and Arto Lindsay kept Nix at the top of his game. But his presence was also felt in guest spots with 30 years’ worth of young lions, features in area festivals and ensembles such as The Beyond Group (led by flautist Cheryl Pyle) and those helmed by Lavelle, or saxophonists Patrick Brennan or Ras Moshe Burnett among many more.<br /><br />Nix’s final performance was on 27 May, just several days prior to his passing. His set was a feature of New Music Nights, the series I curated, and by all account this was a particularly enlivened Quartet gig. Afterward, Bern spoke of the callous political climate afflicting the US since January, the weariness evident in his stance. As I folded mic stands, our discussion turned to future bookings in the series. “Of course, Bern. Any time. Any time,” I smiled as he departed.<br /><br />Ever the bohemian, Nix lived a meagre life in a tiny single room Ooccupancy apartment. He struggled to make ends meet and pondered at length the loss of opportunities for creatives in these times. He played the same guitar over many decades, the carrying case of which seemed held together merely by hope. Arriving at dates with his instrument and an impossibly tiny amplifier, he could make the old instrument sing, cry, bite, bellow and swoon, with nary an effort. Leaning over its sunburst soundboard, he withheld his glance from the front row, tired eyes deep-set, pointed downward, not in a haughty manner but locked in an especially artful space all his own. His was a linear style which cut across expansive melodies, harmonies and rhythm.<br /><br />While he had no opportunities in recent times to hit the major venues of the Prime Time era, Nix thrived in each performance setting he encountered. Whether on the Vision Festival main stage in 2013 or in the fleeting rooms that sprang up on New York’s Lower East Side or in Williamsburg, he offered audiences a rare, valuable and cherished glimpse into the legacy of Ornette. That giant of free jazz produced a stable of harmolodic emissaries whose work blossomed into whole other forms, still newer realms. Bern Nix stood proudly among them, a survivor, a model, a teacher, a musical adventurer and a gem. We were lucky to have been touched by his bold creativity and gentle hand.<br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">John Pietaro is a writer, musician and cultural organiser from Brooklyn, New York. You can visit his blog at TheCulturalWorker.blogspot.com and website DissidentArts.com</span></i>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2017/06/obit-bern-nix-1947-2017-wire-magazine.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-5761642703407512795Thu, 20 Apr 2017 23:59:00 +00002017-04-20T16:59:36.653-07:00Reportage: Union Nurse and Healthcare Worker Picket<div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Registered Nurses &amp; </span><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">Healthcare</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">&nbsp;Workers Stand Together in Informational Picket and Strike Vote<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aKppSIB8xBU/WPlLDAAJGII/AAAAAAAAB2I/pRahO9CG-ikcimMVxb_Z7_uM8mvDa744ACLcB/s1600/nysna%2Bfresenius%2Binc%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aKppSIB8xBU/WPlLDAAJGII/AAAAAAAAB2I/pRahO9CG-ikcimMVxb_Z7_uM8mvDa744ACLcB/s320/nysna%2Bfresenius%2Binc%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">New York healthcare unions NYSNA and 1199 SEIU unite to battle bad-faith bargaining, Unfair Labor Practices and union busting during two-year negotiation struggle with Fresenius Kidney Care<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">By John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">It was a chilly, overcast morning as members of the New York State Nurses Association and 1199 SEIU took the Brooklyn and Bronx streets. Registered Nurses, Technicians, Social Workers, Dietitians, environmental and clerical staff have been in contract negotiations with dialysis juggernaut Fresenius Kidney Care for over two years. Both unions’ negotiation proceedings have been riddled with negativity from the employer, globally the largest and most profitable of dialysis providers. Fresenius boasts a dense network of facilities across the Americas, Europe, the Far East and other regions. Recent reports state that the company’s profits are in the range of </span><i style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">$1.5 BILLION</i><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">“Our clinic is staffed short almost every night”, said Stacey White RN, a Fresenius employee and NYSNA delegate. “All I can say is that Fresenius just doesn’t seem to care. Many evenings, we have only two instead of the necessary three nurses on duty--and management has no plan to bring in another. Techs are scheduled the same way. This can jeopardize our patients’ safety”. The union healthcare professionals and technicians have regularly voiced their protest to such dangerous staffing practices.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Bernadette Hankey-Johnson RN, long-time Fresenius employee, felt similarly. “We are always so busy. If the nurses and Techs weren’t so vigilant…” Nurse Hankey-Johnson looked away pensively, tightly clutching a placard reading <i>PATIENTS BEFORE PROFITS</i>. &nbsp;In the distance others on the line began cheering as truckers’ horns sounded out in support. The thicket of traffic on Atlantic Avenue joined in noisily, excitedly. <i>HONK FOR PATIENT CARE!</i> another placard asked, and passing police cars rang sirens resoundingly.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">The unions involved have bargained in good faith toward fair contracts, seeking to maintain union health benefits and pensions, and acquire moderate raises and incremental differential increases for experience. Employees’ last saw raises more than six years back. NYSNA is also seeking a clinical committee to elicit change as needed for safe staffing. However Fresenius continues to present harsh proposals which would take away health benefits and pensions or obliterate union security. The choices have been flagrantly disrespectful. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">In 2015 Fresenius closed the Brooklyn Kidney Center, a union facility, and initially stated that the clinic opening in its place would continue to honor the twin union contracts. Though management and the unions met to arrange for the laid-off staff to move to the new site, Fresenius leadership later informed the unions that the company will <u>not</u> honor its earlier promise. The company claims that the site on DeGraw Street in Gowanus is not a replacement but a new operation. Many Fresenius employees remain laid-off after the closure and none have been offered work opportunities at the expansive DeGraw site. NYSNA filed charges of Unfair Labor Practice with the National Labor Relations Board against Fresenius’ actions.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">As more staff came out to join the picket, they stated that management, for the first time in memory, had ordered in lunch for them. “But none of us are partaking”, reported Mercedes Anderson-Draggon RN. “Because this lunch they’re offering is not free. The ultimate cost is too high”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">By day’s end, as the strike vote was tallied, it was clear that both NYSNA and 1199 SEIU members were fully prepared for to embark on whatever was necessary: all had voted to authorize a strike. 1199 will be meeting with Fresenius for a negotiation session on April 26; NYSNA activists will be there with them. The outcome of this will be the actual deciding vote as to what comes next. “We don’t want to strike”, one of the unionists told a sympathetic passerby, “but we will if we have to”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2017/04/reportage-union-nurse-and-healthcare.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-1216231696110235224Mon, 03 Apr 2017 01:32:00 +00002017-04-03T13:03:48.020-07:00film review: Thomas Chapin: Night Bird Song<div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Thomas Chapin: Night Bird Song—the incandescent life of a jazz great”</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></i></b></div><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">A documentary by Stephanie J. Castillo – www.thomaschapinfilm.com</span></b><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Film review by John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gDR1qDckQI0/WOGluVKsJUI/AAAAAAAAB1k/GBe5E0e9LqUhZnExnVmi1Im2Qrr2rVVLwCLcB/s1600/chapin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gDR1qDckQI0/WOGluVKsJUI/AAAAAAAAB1k/GBe5E0e9LqUhZnExnVmi1Im2Qrr2rVVLwCLcB/s320/chapin.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Have you had the chance to see this moving, enticing film on Thomas Chapin (1957-1998), the brilliantly artful saxophonist and flutist? It was shown in various locations in Manhattan, from City Winery to Lincoln Center, and also in festivals around the nation and globe, but somehow got passed my watchful eye. Until now. Just caught a screening in Flushing, Queens last night, and it was well worth the trip from my Brooklyn home base. Sadly, Chapin’s all too brief career was also easy to miss, though he was a busy player on the mainstream scene and also hailed a champion downtown, quickly moving to the front of the Knitting Factory stage during the later ‘80s and ‘90s. As per the onscreen testimony of Michael Dorf, Knitting Factory founder, Chapin was the first artist to be signed to the now sought-after Knitting Factory record label and the main attraction of the overseas tours he produced under that banner.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Here was an alto player of constant invention and a wonderfully listenable tone (I couldn’t help but notice some similarity to that of David Sanborn) who thrived in settings from Lionel Hampton’s big band, of which he was musical director, to the incendiary realm of Machine Gun. Throughout the screening, I kept wondering how I could have not caught on to this deeply talented musician back then, even as I haunted the downtown venues and played at that original Knitting Factory location on Houston Street. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Award winning filmmaker Stephanie J. Castillo was actually Chapin’s sister-in-law, so had access to not only family members for interview segments, but close friends and musical allies with the saxophonist, offering viewers a much fuller understanding of the man than could have otherwise been possible. I’m glad she did. The documentary is a thorough examination of every facet of Chapin’s development, success and challenges. Though the story ends with the terribly young death of the protagonist, his final passing from a vicious strain of leukemia occurred only after achieving his wish to perform onstage one final time. The footage of that event, and surrounding interviews, carries every viewer into the moment and the effect, simultaneously a lamentation and celebration, is stirring. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">“Thomas Chapin: Night Bird Song” is not to be missed, especially if you were downtown during the heyday of East Village creativity. Or just wish you were. It hits screens in DC and Charlottesville later this month. On May 6 the Brooklyn Conservatory of Music hosts a concert of Chapin compositions performed by many of the musicians who worked with him over the years. See the above website for details.<o:p></o:p></span></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2017/04/film-review-thomas-chapin-night-bird.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-7651893006135681501Sat, 01 Apr 2017 17:56:00 +00002017-04-01T10:56:51.445-07:00CD Review: Iconoclast, "Driven to Defiance"<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin: 0.95pt 0in 9.7pt 0.5pt; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #737373; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"NYC Jazz Record", April 2017</span></span></b></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin: 0.95pt 0in 9.7pt 0.5pt;"><b><span style="color: #737373; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">ICONOCLAST, <i>DRIVEN TO DEFIANCE</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 107%; margin: 0.95pt 0in 9.7pt 0.5pt;"><b><span style="color: #737373;">CD review by John Pietaro</span></b><o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WIYdBWUsBUs/WN_pXM83OaI/AAAAAAAAB0w/_TLSrw8D2VIi89eA9kU9ykzArbvBZVkpACLcB/s1600/iconoclast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WIYdBWUsBUs/WN_pXM83OaI/AAAAAAAAB0w/_TLSrw8D2VIi89eA9kU9ykzArbvBZVkpACLcB/s320/iconoclast.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 21.4pt; margin-left: .5pt; margin-right: 1.5pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 99%;">H</span>ere’s a duo born of Downtown when that geographic designation meant much more than simply “below 23rd Street”. And well before the bistros and condos. This is grassroots music, as pure as the old Palace Hotel. <i>Driven to Defiance</i>? Iconoclast was bred on it. Alto saxophonist/violinist Julie Joslyn and drummer Leo Ciesa create explosive free music and soaring melodies that mingle gorgeously on an unpredictable playlist. The duo is a grand array of sound now celebrating their 30th anniversary. And there’s much to celebrate.&nbsp; “Nothing Untold” is a 6/8 Ciesa statement played on toms with timpani mallets deftly variated with subdivisions and bending tempo building toward a mournful alto melody. One hears the Middle Eastern influence within a complete and incisive work. Like many of the original Downtown artists, Iconoclast recognizes the strength in relatively short statements as established by the punk and no wave bands they shared many a stage with in the ‘80s-90s. &nbsp;Of note is “One Hundred Verticals”, a slow boil into gripping fire music. Joslyn’s violin playing is reminiscent of Ornette Coleman’s foray into that instrument, albeit with a modern classical outline ever present. Searching, possibly archaic tunes make frequent appearances as do other melismatic themes. At times while Joslyn is serenading, Ciesa carefully drops in broken blues piano, tabla-like drumset parts or a mix of classic New Thing and devastating industrial percussion. “You’re So Very Touchable” is a warm love song with a sensuous alto resounding over delicate drumming, but no Downtowner worth their salt would allow this emotion to ruminate; “Spheres of Influence” barks at the ear with the impact of a time when avant garde jazzers jammed with punk rockers in unheated squats. And Joslyn’s spoken word is used to dramatic effect on “Part of the Hour”, a work of expressionist, surreal poetry with a very strong Ciesa piano score that feels like ‘30s Hanns Eisler.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 21.4pt; margin-left: .5pt; margin-right: 1.5pt; margin-top: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></div><br /><div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 97%; margin: 0in 0in 1.2pt 0.5pt;"><i>For more information, visit fangrecords.com. This project is at Michiko Studios Apr. 7th. See Calendar.&nbsp;</i><o:p></o:p></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2017/04/cd-review-iconoclast-driven-to-defiance.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-5374588804940841728Sun, 19 Feb 2017 17:52:00 +00002017-02-19T09:52:08.086-08:00AMINA BARAKA RECORDS DEBUT CD, HEADLINES NYC PERFORMANCE<div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">AMINA BARAKA RECORDS DEBUT CD, HEADLINES NYC PERFORMANCE<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vrUvy9U_4D8/WKnYJH7sIsI/AAAAAAAAB0Q/n2ikgUqQtS42Zx5sW33wEtZvHOuP4EdFACLcB/s1600/amina%2B-%2Bphoto%2Bby%2BJoyce%2BJones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vrUvy9U_4D8/WKnYJH7sIsI/AAAAAAAAB0Q/n2ikgUqQtS42Zx5sW33wEtZvHOuP4EdFACLcB/s320/amina%2B-%2Bphoto%2Bby%2BJoyce%2BJones.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Amina Baraka photo by Joyce Jones</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">New Masses Nights</span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">, the monthly series of radical performance, will celebrate Black History Month with the legendary Amina Baraka who will perform selections from her recently recorded debut CD.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ms. Baraka, a vital force of social justice and fight-back over decades, is a poet of unique talent who stands as woefully under-recognized. Though she’d been active alongside her late husband, the celebrated poet Amiri Baraka, her work as an independent artist has often been overlooked outside of the activist circle in the New York/New Jersey area. While some state that this was caused by being outshined by the fame of Mr. Baraka’s output, others attest that the couple’s international profile as voices of radicalism enforced an unspoken censorship about her. “Plus, I was raising a family”, Ms. Baraka clarified. Those were hard years. Someone had to be here when the children came home from school. When Amiri traveled, I often needed to be home”. The family experienced threats by reactionary forces, and during the height of COINTELPRO operations, the Barakas were subject to federal and local government investigation, compelling Ms. Baraka to stand protectively over home and children.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Stories of a lifetime<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ms. Baraka’s plans to record an album of her poetry have been long-standing, a goal she always intended to see realized. Working in a collaborative effort with this reporter over the past year, she began to formulate the project as one which would offer a vision of herself through the stories of her lifetime. “Some of these poems date back to the 1960s and ’70s. Others were written very recently as I sit up nights into the early morning hours.&nbsp; Memories, faces, sounds. It’s all about the people’s struggle”, she explained.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">After signing a contract with renowned underground jazz label ESP-Disk (which released albums by such seminal artists as Albert Ayler and Ornette Coleman), Ms. Baraka worked with this reporter’s quartet the Red Microphone to establish arrangements for her poetry. Some of the pieces were set to original compositions of band member Rocco John Iacovone while others were cast over free jazz, blues or R &amp; B-flavored music. The material was recorded in January’s chill at Park West Studios in Flatbush, Brooklyn NY. The CD is due for release in late spring or early summer. ESP-Disk’s Steven Holtje has remarked that the project is one of “historic” proportions.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">During the recording session Ms. Baraka remarked: “I’ve been waiting my entire life to record my poetry this way. I thrive on the music and much of it is improvised, so that leads me to perform the pieces in new ways, in some cases with new words. This CD is very important right now as we face a kind of American fascism we haven’t known before.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In performance<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ms. Baraka, in the company of the Red Microphone, will perform selections from this collection at the radical arts series New Masses Nights on Saturday February 25, 7pm at the Henry Winston Unity Hall located at 235 West 23 Street, 7th floor, in the Chelsea district of Manhattan. Admission is a $10 donation. The members of the Red Microphone are Ras Moshe Burnett (tenor saxophone, flute), Rocco John Iacovone (alto and soprano saxophones, piano), Laurie Towers (electric bass) and this writer, musical director/drummer-percussionist John Pietaro.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Toward the cause of Black History Month, other performers on the February 25 bill include jazz bassist/poet Larry Roland’s quartet (Larry Roland-Bass, Poetry, Voice; Michael Moss-Reeds, Flute; Waldron Ricks- Trumpet; Chuck Fertel- Drums) and guitarist Dave Ross’ trio</span> (<span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Dave Ross- Guitar; Eric Lawrence-Saxophone, Flute; Ras Moshe Burnett-Saxophones, Flute; special guest Shlomit Oren Ross: Movement, Voice). There will also be a reading of a Langston Hughes work originally published in <i>“New Masses”</i>, the revolutionary cultural magazine the series is named for.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For more information on the series see <a href="http://www.facebook.com/NewMassesNights">www.facebook.com/NewMassesNights</a>and see the FB event page <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/1534135256626751/">https://www.facebook.com/events/1534135256626751/</a><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2017/02/amina-baraka-records-debut-cd-headlines.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-5089658553500912778Fri, 06 Jan 2017 02:45:00 +00002017-01-05T18:48:49.205-08:00NYC Jazz Record feature: LEON PARKER<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>"NYC Jazz Record"</i>, January 2017</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kMwXgOhg11I/Vn2ofUcHILI/AAAAAAAABho/_c-JtMzEcH48KolPpF6fd-Qieron85PWACPcB/s1600/Jazz%2BRecord%2Blogo.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="116" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kMwXgOhg11I/Vn2ofUcHILI/AAAAAAAABho/_c-JtMzEcH48KolPpF6fd-Qieron85PWACPcB/s320/Jazz%2BRecord%2Blogo.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; line-height: 107%;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">LEON PARKER: Reaffirming Roots and Branches</span></b></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; line-height: 107%;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;">By John Pietaro</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;">After 15 years of life abroad, where he engaged in a musical pilgrimage of sorts, native New Yorker Leon Parker is back. Hopefully, to stay.&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;">Known as a brash young lion at the dawn of the ‘90s, the drummer/percussionist was as celebrated as deemed notorious due to a thorny frankness and an arduous drive to authenticity. Parker explained, “I’m the same person as back then, but after much reflection, I don’t hold the anger I once did”. What he may have given up in agitation, Parker’s cultivated in a renewed vitality for the drumset as well as the realization of his concept of body percussion and voice he calls EmbodiRhythm.</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;">Born in White Plains, New York, 1965, Leon Parker was exposed to the lineage of jazz as a toddler. “My grandparents had met uptown during the Harlem Renaissance and they carried this incredible record collection with them through the years”. He was drawn to the inherent rhythms of jazz and early showed an affinity toward percussives. The decisive moment was seeing Buddy Rich play on the Tonight Show. “My parents got me out of bed to see this. I was about 6 years old and was inspired enough to demand they buy me a real drumset as opposed to just toys. Seeing someone play so strongly and with so much command of the instrument, I know I needed to do this”.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;">In grade school, the youthful Parker began playing drums in a school band and befriended another budding young percussionist, Scott Latzky. “His father was a complete jazz nut and we used to go to his place to listen to his records”. Both then entered a local talent show, performing solo drumset spots. Within a few years, both were members of the Westchester Youth Jazz Ensemble, directed by James Harewood, later Frank Foster.</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;">“I listened to a lot of the old Gene Krupa records when I was learning. Especially what he played on Goodman’s ‘Sing, Sing’, Sing’. I still love the floor tom; it’s a special drum that needs taming. Then I came to love Art Blakey’s drumming, especially his supportive playing behind others in his band. And I’ve always enjoyed Tony Williams and use some of his spice. But my favorite musician in the world is Roy Haynes. I’ve never copied his approach but the spirit is there.”</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;">Parker, at age 17, began performing frequently with a local band and also started working with Hudson Valley area saxophonist Carmen Leggio. Still, he felt a world away from New York’s jazz center. “White Plains to NYC is only a 40 min train ride but for me it was as far off as Australia. The bridge was guitarist Melvin Sparks. He introduced me to Dr. Lonnie Smith”. Parker also engaged in Barry Harris’ programs and by 1986, was an “unofficial student” at the New School’s jazz program, under the watchful eye of Arnie Lawrence. He credits saxophonist Virginia Mayhew (“an unsung hero”) with bringing him to Lawrence’s attention. Serving as the frequent drummer on many student recitals, Parker came into contact with the up-and-coming players of that period. He also began making nightly vigils to Bradley’s during Kenny Barron’s long tenure at the club. When invited to do so, Parker began sitting in with the group, but not by taking over drummer Ben Riley’s kit: “I was fascinated by the cymbals. When I was 22 years old and used to go to Bradley’s all the time and carry only a cymbal with me. Kenny would let me sit in”. And then when Riley was unavailable to make the gig for one week, “I took the drum chair”, he said with a laugh, “but still played on just the one cymbal”, causing a rumble across the jazz community.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;">Playing a slightly fuller drum set, he formed his own quartet and also began working with Bill Charlap and Joshua Redman. Soon, he too would become house drummer for the Blue Note jam sessions and at the terrace of the Village Gate, leading a trio with Brad Mehldau and Uganna Okegwo. In 1992, the drummer recorded and toured with Dewey Redman.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;">A year later, Parker recorded his first album as a leader, ‘Above and Below’ and with it, set out to redefine the drumset to his own specifications. “Trying to do gigs on the ride cymbal alone, I realized it was crazy. I had come up with a drumset that let me do gigs like a normal guy with a focus on the cymbal”. A period of experimentation had him incorporate a hi-hat briefly. “Now I have one cymbal and no hi-hat. I can communicate so much more with that. BD, snare, two tom-toms, one cymbal”.</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;">After releasing several more albums, the drummer became disenchanted with the direction the jazz industry was taking the music. “I saw all the bullshit involved. I was looking for something but was very outspoken”, he said of his bifurcated rebellion against and desire to be accepted by the broader jazz community. “I saw the authentic values disregarded while the music industry capitalized on the tradition of jazz. So I left in 2001”.&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;">Relocating to a small French village, Parker immersed himself in the essence of music’s communication. “I didn’t bring a drumset with me. I had been experimenting with body rhythms and vocal sounds, and wanted to explore this more”. He avoided much of the French jazz scene, focusing instead on teaching EmbodiRhythm workshops. Over the years he was away, Parker had only isolated occasions to play drums before heeding the call from old friend Aaron Goldberg. After playing a local show with the pianist, Parker was ready to return home to the US; he arrived in New York in time for last fall’s performance season. Gigs with Goldberg continue and Parker is now well within his comfort zone, performing with his own Humanity Quartet and facilitating EmbodiRhythms workshops. “Deciding to move back to New York, I had to look over the earlier expectations I had put upon myself and the institution of jazz. I no longer believe in institutions. We are artists and if there’s sincerity and authenticity in our work, then it remains powerful”.&nbsp;</span><br /><div><br /></div></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2017/01/nyc-jazz-record-feature-leon-parker.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-4569122991142439456Sun, 25 Dec 2016 18:34:00 +00002016-12-25T10:59:36.587-08:00Poetry: "New Birth, When We Have Won"<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></u></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></u></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">NEW BIRTH, WHEN WE HAVE WON<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">(after Lewis Allen’s ‘Beloved Comrade’)<o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;freestyle script&quot;; font-size: 16.0pt;">For Fidel and the Fallen Among Us</span><o:p></o:p></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;freestyle script&quot;; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AdqlhUPXEvQ/WGAQJYi3f-I/AAAAAAAABzM/Mmlgkxd66_0KZyG0ecLPaEonRYchPPCxwCLcB/s1600/lit%2Btest.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AdqlhUPXEvQ/WGAQJYi3f-I/AAAAAAAABzM/Mmlgkxd66_0KZyG0ecLPaEonRYchPPCxwCLcB/s320/lit%2Btest.JPG" width="231" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;freestyle script&quot;; font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The fight <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The fight has<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The fight has just begun<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Just begun<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Just begun<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The fight for change, for justice, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The fight against fascism has just begun---<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Anew.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">To you, to you, to you beloved comrades who sang the people’s song, fought and fell in the people’s war<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The people’s war. Jarama is here.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Jarama is now. Jarama was always.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The List. The 10. Phone-taps and <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Black-bag jobs, and spying eyes,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Blacklist, revived. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Unions reviled.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Jarama is now.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Where you stood, we now stand,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Underground, rise-up planned.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Where you bled the pains of all,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Where you’re remembered, we recall.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The fight goes on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Fidel said: <i>a revolution is a struggle to the death----between the future and the past.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Our present tense, our present, <b>our present-now</b>.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The past goes on….<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Code Noir, minstrel show<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sambo, old Jim Crow, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">All come out for the lynching show!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The fight, still. The fight. Still.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ghetto slum-lords and imports of the CIA. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Timeless today.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Broken mirrors splinter, tearing <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Humiliation and<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Segregation, the<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Evisceration and deportation. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Dreamers awoken, the Dreamers awoken! But it’s the same dream, the same Dream. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Night raids and night<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Terrors and<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Nightscapes for those who look different and <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pray different and <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Speak different. From us. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><u><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Them</span></u></i></b><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The cold of side-glances of glancing blows,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Powdered frost over those forgotten, those apart, those<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Forgotten. The old. The ill. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">The OTHER.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The fight was then, the fight<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Renewed. The fight<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Renewed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Would-be Brownshirts’ detention camps <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Official, devised. Surmised. White pride. White national. White supremacy. White Hate. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Alpha. The Decider. The Breadwinner. Mr. Mister. The Man.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Male supremacy. Male <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Domination. The little woman, the bitch, ball-and-chain, the fairer sex, T and A. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Madonna/whore/Madonna/whore…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">They’ll let you do anything when you’re a celebrity.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">RESERVATIONS: Lock-up for our Nations <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Native lands’ desecration.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Winter water cannons snarl and bite, claiming the land and<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Tradition.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Detention. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Camps for the Japanese citizen, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">J. Edgar HUAC in secret drag<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Deporting Reds, the scare is back.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">CO-INTEL, <i>Liberte</i>, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Hollywood 10, Chicago 7, Central Park 5 <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Free Bobby Seale and Angela Davis. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Still, the Prison Industrial Complex &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Marches on. Marches on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The fight will still go on. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Drug sweep and profile, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Muslim ban, <i>No Irish Need Apply</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Joe Hill, Kevin Barry, Tom Mooney, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Scottsboro, Sacco, Vanzetti. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Wobs, the Party.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Emma Goldman. And Paul Robeson.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Trumbo. The Rosenbergs. Herndon. Peltier. Mumia, Amiri. Panthers, Lords, Weathermen. NOW, Guerilla Girls and Rad Womyn and Teamsters and Turtles Stopping the gears.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Silencing the silencing. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Now, here comes the Highway Patrol <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Beating farmers up from the Dustbowl.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pinkerton thugs kill workers with <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Fire and gun and stone.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When we all were hungry. And freezing and<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Alone.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But we still blame the poor for their lack of Home.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Money-changers, then and now, stealing Lives, owning families, breaking pride <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And Elections.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Reagan Youth bottle-fed on Wall Street, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Noshing on livelihoods <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14pt; text-align: right;">Now stand in tall buildings with gold letters and</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Shiny silver buttons,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Feeding on promise. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Today’s refugee from war and poverty fights<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For hope,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">She needs to believe. Needs to believe.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But the Swastika, back in style, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Hate crimes all the rage.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Confederate flag bewitches, beguiles,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The cold grows colder by the day. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Divide, disrupt,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Repeal, corrupt.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And the fight must still go on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The fight must still go on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">New birth, new birth<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When we have won, when we have won.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>When we have won...</b><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Broken mirror splinters 10,000 shards of&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Constitution and Declaration over<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Un-American perseveration. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">…Goddamn the corporation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">&nbsp; </span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; text-align: center;"><i>--John Pietaro, Brooklyn NY December 9, 2016</i></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q9j1CKWdXYA/WGAQSow268I/AAAAAAAABzQ/HdPnTNEdOosrzGcpW6UQ7v7u3yCt1zmcwCLcB/s1600/red%2Bmic%2Bbetter%2Bworld%2B2016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q9j1CKWdXYA/WGAQSow268I/AAAAAAAABzQ/HdPnTNEdOosrzGcpW6UQ7v7u3yCt1zmcwCLcB/s320/red%2Bmic%2Bbetter%2Bworld%2B2016.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times&quot; , &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: x-small;">The Red Microphone performing "New Birth, When We Have Won", Better World Awards 2016</span></div><br /><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2016/12/poetry-new-birth-when-we-have-won.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-7092309960638028101Sat, 17 Dec 2016 03:49:00 +00002016-12-16T19:54:03.916-08:00RECORDING DEBUT OF REVOLUTIONARY POET AMINA BARAKA<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>People's World</i></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>THE RECORDING DEBUT OF REVOLUTIONARY POET&nbsp;</b></span></span><br /><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"><b>AMINA BARAKA</b></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4pQlgqrBwOw/WFS1WmefOjI/AAAAAAAABy8/pnpL9GojYHAdi8RvKMGS5ECXIrF2ncjvwCLcB/s1600/Amina%2Bsigning%2BESP%2BDisk%2Bcontract-12-15-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4pQlgqrBwOw/WFS1WmefOjI/AAAAAAAABy8/pnpL9GojYHAdi8RvKMGS5ECXIrF2ncjvwCLcB/s320/Amina%2Bsigning%2BESP%2BDisk%2Bcontract-12-15-16.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Newark NJ: On December 15 the woefully under-recognized activist-poet Amina Baraka signed a recording contract with the legendary free jazz label ESP-Disk in preparation for her debut CD, "If I Can't Dance, It's Not My Revolution".<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Ms. Baraka, one-time People's World columnist, performer at the recent Better World Awards luncheon and the widow of Amiri Baraka, spent the day in rehearsal with members of the Red Microphone, the quartet&nbsp;that will serve as her accompanying band on the record.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />The CD is to be recorded in a Brooklyn studio on January 29 and ESP-Disk, the record label that debuted such stellar artists as Albert Ayler, will be releasing it both on CD and digital formats early in 2017. Poetry selections will constitute a powerful issues-oriented sampling of Ms. Baraka's works from the early 1960s through the present. The pieces will range from those inspired by the author's childhood in the pre-Civil Rights American South to a brand new piece written in the wake of Donald Trump's election which she fittingly entitled The Fascist.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />Ms. Baraka's part in the movements for social justice, Black liberation, human rights, economic justice and peace have been well documented for decades. She performed extensively with her celebrated husband over many years, as well as a jazz and blues vocalist and dancer, and as a sometime member of the Bread is Rising Poetry Collective. Previously, her only recorded work was in joint efforts with Mr. Baraka, so this 2017 debut work is deemed quite historic. "I'm very excited to finally have a vehicle to present my poetry. This also includes whole aspects of my own story. But now, in these times when racism and hate are again bold and violent and under a thinly-veiled guise of so-called 'patriotism', cultural workers NEED to speak out. We are standing up".&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />The Red Microphone, a self-described ensemble of liberation jazz, is led by writer and percussionist John Pietaro who has also authored many articles for The People's World and Political Affairs. He is the curator of the monthly New Masses Nights performance series at Henry Winston Unity Hall. The band performed at several Better World Award functions and also accompanied Ms. Baraka at the 2016 Dissident Arts Festival which occurred this past summer here in New York City. The other members of the quartet are saxophonist/flutist Ras Moshe Burnett (a noted underground musician and activist), saxophonist/composer/pianist Rocco John Iacovone and the electric bassist Laurie Towers.&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The photo shows Ms. Baraka and Mr. Pietaro, for the Red Microphone, signing the ESP-Disk contract.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2016/12/recording-debut-of-revolutionary-poet.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-3992259326383330422Mon, 28 Nov 2016 01:29:00 +00002016-11-27T17:29:31.860-08:00Book reviews: Two children's titles from Hardball Press<div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><u><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Hardball Press</span></u></i></b><u><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <i>Children’s Division Offers Bi-Lingual Titles on Equality, Strength, Sharing<o:p></o:p></i></span></u></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Book review by John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-daG3pIctDE0/WDuIYT1g_PI/AAAAAAAABvY/cVm397o9dYsHBUBhH3X0JLoMqBHfwc4OgCLcB/s1600/hats%2Boff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-daG3pIctDE0/WDuIYT1g_PI/AAAAAAAABvY/cVm397o9dYsHBUBhH3X0JLoMqBHfwc4OgCLcB/s320/hats%2Boff.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Hats Off for Gabbie</span></i></b><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"> / <b><i>Aplauso para Gaby!</i></b> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Written by Marivir R. Montebon, Illustrationj by Yana Murashko, Translation y Laura Flores<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">(Hardball Press, 2016)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">The Cabbage That Came Back</span></i></b><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"> / <b><i>El Repollo Que Volvio<o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Written by Stephen Pearl, Illustration by Rafael Pearl, Translation by Sara Pearl<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">(Hardball Press, 2016)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">With the addition of these two releases, the children’s division of independent, progressive publisher Hardball Press is running eight-strong. The series is unified by engaging, moving tales of growth, self-realization and visions of social justice with a strong focus on multi-culturalism: each title is published in both English and Spanish. But the publisher is sure to avoid the preachiness that can be associated with such a mission. Instead the text is clearly driven by the experiences and expanse of the child’s world and Hardball’s artwork is inviting and often compelling.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">With <i>Hats Off for Gabbie!</i> / <i>Aplauso para Gaby! </i>Hardball brings us the ongoing fight for identity and equality via the tale of an eight year-old girl wishing to become a member of the local Little League baseball team. She is confronted with open sexism when the dismissive team coach tells her, “This is for boys only”. Confronted with exclusion, Gabbie and her friend divisive a plan to have her try out for the team, in essence, in drag. Disguised as a boy, her athletic talents immediately earn her a place on the team, and when in a tight game her batting skills are put to the test, she scores the winning home run. And then in coming forward with the reality of her gender, Gabbie liberates the team for girl athletes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The core story is an important one for girls who have so often been left out of team sports, but there is room for this to be symbolic of one’s journey for self-actualization: following both her victorious moment and acceptance by the coach, “Gabbie made a promise to herself to always tell the truth”. This is an empowering statement in any context. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Cabbage That Came Back</span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> / <i>El Repollo Que Volvio</i> offers another important moral, selflessness. Here, in the face of a winter colder and more snow-filled than she’d known before, a rabbit is desperately seeking to find vegetation to eat. Discovering two heads of cabbage in the frozen landscape, she brings them home and feasts on the first. Considering a neighbor she believes to be hungry, she gives the second cabbage to the hedgehog. Multiple times, the cabbage is given away to the next animal bearing winter’s famine, but when each realizes that she has enough food, they give it to another. Eventually it returns to the rabbit, an apparent reward for her kindness to others in need. The symbolism of outreach and sharing is center-stage and brings the concept to children in an inviting and gentle manner:&nbsp; the rabbit could not rest having two if she believed others didn’t have any. With our recent election and its coming fallout, this timely morality story may become a necessary tool in a field of disconnect, isolation and divisiveness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2016/11/book-reviews-two-childrens-titles-from.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-7436478851918078204Fri, 11 Nov 2016 03:00:00 +00002016-11-11T10:27:19.771-08:00Essay: AN ELECTION AS NO OTHER: LIFE IN THE COLD<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; line-height: 107%;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">&nbsp;LIFE IN THE COLD</span></i><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iuZDBuLxlgQ/WCU0RcWxKeI/AAAAAAAABvI/TuFlseN6pUMFYnR8aIl-PfPlOAMUcv1HACLcB/s1600/noy%2Bmy%2Bpresident%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iuZDBuLxlgQ/WCU0RcWxKeI/AAAAAAAABvI/TuFlseN6pUMFYnR8aIl-PfPlOAMUcv1HACLcB/s320/noy%2Bmy%2Bpresident%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;ar darling&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">ON THIS SECOND MORNING OF ELECTION 2016</span><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">, </span><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;">staring into the surreal reality that Donald Trump is now president-elect, I find myself transitioning from the sickness and near-numbness of yesterday to a place of brewing anger. Like most on the Left, I was up very late on Election Night, uneasily throwing back a few, watching the results come in through gritted teeth. Yesterday morning in addition to feeling clouded, physically ill and psychically broken, I was exhausted. My day job in the labor movement provides a strong atmosphere of support but yesterday as I went into my midtown office for a team meeting, "venting " was first on the agenda. We were all in this same head of deep mourning but launched into a detailed conversation into the bitter reality of Trumpolotic: the icy blast came in a rush. In addition to his flagrant racist, sexist, xenophobic, greedy platform, he will probably push a viciously anti-Union agenda via Herr Scott Walker's "right to work" horseshit thrust onto the entire nation. Once inflicted, this would tear down the organized labor structure as we know it, vastly weakening unions, dividing workers and leaving a workforce with few if any rights on the job.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This is a change that we can never accept --just as we need to fight against his demonization of immigrants and people of color, his objectification of women and his complete corporatization of governance. No progressive or liberal of any stripe can allow a seizure of the nation by a power broker of the very rich now with the full strength of both houses of congress to trounce on (what remains of) the democratic concept. Trump's appeal to the working class, disaffected whites, unemployed rural people and the utterly gullible in addition to vile racists, Klansmen, xenophobes, homophobes, sexists, America-firsters---the perfect storm for fascist demagoguery---is something we have not experienced prior. This nation has been wracked with the greedy, the hateful and the isolationists who use the lowest tactics known, but prior to yesterday's tragic debacle, they've not been elected president.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This goes well beyond chilling. We are now awash in a very cold, a very urgent time and it must be faced head-on by <b>all </b>people of conscience. The Left must seek to build coalitions not of the moment but <u>permanent bases</u> from which to work. We need to use the model of the <i>Popular Front</i> which brought together Marxists, social democrats, unionists, liberals and the Democratic Party to fight the very real fascist threat overseas. Unified organizations of cultural workers carried the joint messages far and skilled community organizers, worked carefully to insure that workplaces and neighborhoods and families became a part of this serious need for CHANGE. And they operated successfully without any inkling of an internet, email or Skype! And until this mass coalition was manipulated to division, it was one of the vehicles used to hold the populace together and destroy Hitler's world conquest. And over the decades we've rarely if ever been able to repair the damage done. Many of our fights against injustice were fights alone. There is no place for such isolation of progressive activity now.</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The present enemy we face is within and we need to both fight the power and find the means to bring in workers, because we cannot and should not do it alone. Today--not months into a Trump Administration-- we have to call on every voice, every hue, every culture that believes in equality and social justice; every working person, every oppressed community, artists, organizers and strategists of the wider Left; communists and socialists and anarchists and social democrats and liberals alike to begin the process. We can no longer allow our individual issues and organizations to separate us. We have no time left to waste, sisters and brothers. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 13.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The hour is late.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2016/11/essay-election-as-no-other-life-in-cold.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-3753681158652628922Sun, 11 Sep 2016 16:43:00 +00002016-09-11T09:43:51.366-07:00Essay: LANDSCAPE OF 110 STORIES: Fifteen Years After the Fall, Reflecting on the Days of the Towers<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">LANDSCAPE OF 110 STORIES: <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Fifteen Years After the Fall, Reflecting on the Days of the Towers<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sD_AO0fD04A/V9WI51J-VHI/AAAAAAAABow/qwfkgTBkP-8kH0MsX9vI0HIqgu3NCMlEwCLcB/s1600/WTC%2B1980.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sD_AO0fD04A/V9WI51J-VHI/AAAAAAAABow/qwfkgTBkP-8kH0MsX9vI0HIqgu3NCMlEwCLcB/s320/WTC%2B1980.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr" style="background-color: #f1f1f1; color: #7d7d7d; cursor: pointer; line-height: 16px; margin-right: -2px; outline: none; overflow: hidden; padding-right: 2px; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-overflow: ellipsis; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">postcard, WTC,&nbsp;<a class="_ZR irc_hol i3724" data-href="http://blog.nostalgiqa.com/post/31328779679/world-trade-center-postcard" data-noload="" data-ved="0ahUKEwjfjdKk4IfPAhXKKiYKHUYTAV8QjB0IBg" href="https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&amp;rct=j&amp;q=&amp;esrc=s&amp;source=images&amp;cd=&amp;cad=rja&amp;uact=8&amp;ved=0ahUKEwjfjdKk4IfPAhXKKiYKHUYTAV8QjB0IBg&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Fblog.nostalgiqa.com%2Fpost%2F31328779679%2Fworld-trade-center-postcard&amp;bvm=bv.132479545,d.cWw&amp;psig=AFQjCNFVam1bYNDuJEOVyxVvq_f64DQXug&amp;ust=1473698302648655" jsaction="mousedown:irc.rl;keydown:irc.rlk" style="background-color: #f1f1f1; color: #7d7d7d; cursor: pointer; line-height: 16px; outline: none; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;" tabindex="0" target="_blank">blog.nostalgiqa.com</a></span></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Well beyond the lost icon, it’s the slow fade of the faces, the erosion of the names and times that leaves us hollow. The persistence of memory contains a worthy reward. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The devastating events of September 11, 2001 remain surreal for those who knew the Twin Towers’ place high above downtown. It’s been said that our collective trust, perhaps always a false security, fragmented into the dust and debris that morning. Fifteen years hence, New Yorkers still recall the gentle breeze and sweet, warm scent in the air moments before the news reports flooded in. Before everything changed.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Long before the attack, most New Yorkers overlooked these buildings which had claimed our horizon, reshaped our landscape in 1973. You couldn’t miss the Towers, a pair of giant phallic sentinels at river’s edge, but other than the tourists, few took notice. Now when walking up West Street or sitting on the Brooklyn Promenade, trying to recall the exact spot where the original World Trade Center stood can be rather arduous. Clouds of memory became confounded with 9/11’s clouds of dust. The former dissipated along with the latter. At present, Vesey Street, once surging with traffic between WTC 5 and the Brooklyn Bridge, is now open to only police surveillance. Along West Street are old parking lot entrances long paved over, phantom doorways leading nowhere, barricades where crowded pathways once thrived. The new building is up and running, the crowds have returned but the directions they move in are vastly different. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Spectral imagery is fleeting. But for the continued fervor over violent terrorist cells and soulless drone strikes, visions of the place and its times would too fade into the night sky. This, then, is an elegy for the people that were there as well as the very days of the Towers.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">*******<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was 1980 and I was a college freshman</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">, </span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">struggling to maintain grades and a part-time job. I tired of the painfully annoying supermarket cashier role I lived several evenings per week, so when word got out that a security firm had openings for guards at the World Trade Center, I jumped at the chance. As a Brooklyn boy, the prospect of going to work in an important place like that, filled with dignitaries and visitors from all over the globe, in <i>the City </i>no less, seemed just so relevant. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was an overcast February afternoon as I descended into the subway, heading toward Jamaica Queens, seeking out an application and uniform. Within the security agency’s Hillside Avenue office, my eyes scanned the worn paneled walls and aging desk. On the wall behind it was a crested banner which featured the profiled picture of a steely-eyed Spartan warrior brandishing a&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">full head-dress and armor. The man behind the desk looked no less static, far more terse than his warrior brother of another age. Short-cropped hair and short in stature. Steely eyes, hardened jaw, brittle mouth. What had been this man’s actual goal in law enforcement? Did he finally abandon his dreams of becoming a Special Agent in federal service or perhaps an NYPD commander? It must have been the height requirement that did him in, I thought, as I stood uncomfortably in the close room. I had to try to keep from shifting my lean one side to the other as I waited for his offer for the chair that never came. He shuffled papers, ignoring me for as long as possible, as a drill sergeant might do with a recruit. Here was the kind of guy who’d dare you to knock a battery off his shoulder. Does he have a framed picture of John Wayne at home? Am I really security officer material? How can I fit in with guys like this? Thoughts raced and I became lost in the patterns on the edging of the warrior poster.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After reviewing my application, security guy took my fingerprints and told me to report to the sixth floor security office of One World Trade Center on Saturday. I’d be on the day shift, weekends and holidays. The pay was damned good at the time: $50. per day, so no one could complain. Least of all me; I was saving for a car. As I headed back out into the chilly blue-grey afternoon I examined the uniform’s billowy shirt, clip-on tie (yes, the sort they put on cadavers), cheap navy pants and polyester beige jacket with its own miniature version of the warrior crest. Well, at least it was better than the paper hat and smock back at the supermarket.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On Saturday, it was still rather dark when I left my house and headed toward the subway. The ride took nearly an hour—all local stops—and the car was largely empty, save for other weary early morning travelers and the faceless people crumpled into corner seats. The train stopped right in the Trade Center’s concourse amidst a small maze of shops, restaurants and food stands which featured glitzy designer clothing, hurtfully expensive dinners and glowing signs. How odd this bustling, crowded space looked when the stores were still shuttered, the lights all dimmed and the only passersby were narcoleptic night workers or the lost and lonely homeless population which filled the crevices of each doorway and archway as the city slept. Warmed by discarded newspaper and a hide thickened from scorn, the homeless were a significant presence at the World Trade Center in those Reagan-era years, when housing and psychiatric programs slammed shut around them and the rich-poor divide grew to previously unheard of proportions. They were a significant presence, that is, until the lights went on. Then they were ejected out of the sightline of the polite elite, tourists and visitors.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Trade Center was a world unto itself, but for my first couple of years there, I had a limited view. I had a cream assignment—guarding one of the stock market trading firms which inhabited a couple of the upper<sup> </sup>floors of building one, the North Tower. This company would be all over the press come 9/11, having lost so many of its staff on that awful day, but twenty years earlier, it was just another marble-bedecked office filled with buzzing offices and very expensive artwork. On weekends the trading furor fell quiet and I took the time to do homework and drink lots of&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">coffee. The place was dead, with few occasions for visitors, so I was pleased to discover a clock radio someone had conveniently left nearby. My listening habits took me all over the FM dial, from WNEW (I especially loved Pete Fornatale’s ‘Mixed Bag’ show on Saturdays) to the jazz stations WKCR and WBGO to the progressive talk of WBAI. But when the atmosphere fell silent, I started listening to the building itself.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">By design, the towers swayed just enough to keep them from becoming damaged under the harsh winds which savagely whipped through the open terrain—this in a time when Battery Park City had not yet had a cornerstone laid, the World Financial Center was still an empty muddy lot and World Trade Seven was not even a concept. The wind was so severe around the buildings that the doors on West Street were nearly impossible to pry open and an attempted stroll across the Plaza could be physically harmful. So, yes, from the upper floors, you could hear the buildings swaying. Sitting in my dim mausoleum of a post, the creaking, cracking, throbbing sound of the structure bending against the vicious jabs of icy blasts prayed on one’s imagination. What would happen if the Tower snapped---or collapsed? But the once the music had been turned back on I shook my head and chuckled about how far-fetched that all seemed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">From such a height, where the cars below looked smaller than toys and none of the sounds of Manhattan were audible, </span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">one longed for interactions with others. In this desolate spot, I came to know the patrolling guards well---they looked for a place to have a rest and I needed the company. Lew Horowitz was a retired Brooklyn pet store owner who began working as a security guard on weekends to supplement his income. Just old enough to collect Social Security benefits, he said he’d stay on in his position as a Vertical Guard until he needed to retire from that job, too. “Vertical” referred to the assignment: he patrolled the stairwells and floors of the area known as Abel 3—floors 78-107 in Tower 1--and could get through his run quick enough to stop in and kibitz with me, especially whenever I made a pot of coffee. Lew enjoyed speaking about the neighborhood he grew up in, the Lower East Side, and he would spin on endlessly with funny quips and bizarre stories about the old days, which I loved listening to. I still retain many of his tales of his childhood; I’m glad someone does. Lew waxed on about the irascible Moishe Horowitz who tormented the Delancey Street shop owners, Eddie Edelman who greeted everyone with “I’ll pay ya a nickel if ya let me piss in ya pocket” and the toughs that hung out along the trail of Kosher milk bars and Italian coffee shops. Lew also spoke of the Third Avenue El, the elevated train that was torn down during World War Two, apparently so the track metal could be used in the war effort. “Back in the ‘30s the El went all the way downtown and hovered over the Bowery and then Chinatown. The streets were darkened all the time and it felt like an old mystery picture under there”, he fondly remembered, coloring his tale with appropriate hand motions and hushed voice between sips of coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In order to offer something in return for my time, he would sometimes bring up snacks to share but we hit pay-dirt one December when he found a closed suite down the hall being used as a&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">storage area by one of the restaurants. Lew excitedly ran into my area to tell me that there were about 300 boxes piled up in there, each containing very expensive gingerbread houses. We assumed no one would notice if one was missing, so we tore into it and it became the basis for a series of coffee breaks. One box led to two, to three, five, seven, ten. Each weekend we’d check to see if the house-cakes had been moved out yet, but they never were, so we kept eating them. When the supply wasn’t moved out by Christmas, we guessed that they were intended for a New Year’s party up on the Windows of the World restaurant. Anxiously, Lew tried to smooth out the pile of boxes hoping no one would realize the loss, but the New Year came and went and those boxes remained. We kept eating them, looking over our shoulders. We never found out who the owner was and the supply lasted us well into the spring and summer. You can’t go wrong with a good gingerbread house.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Quite the working-class philosopher, Lew was a tall, sweet, awkward man who most enjoyed making others laugh---so he habitually hurled out one-liner after one-liner. Real borscht-belt stuff; he was of that era and reveled in it. When not in mixed company, Lew also engaged in the art of dirty joke telling and could be seen trying to memorize any new ones he may hear in order to could fortify his already brimming repertoire. Lew was often seen in the company of Si Feldman, a still older man who’d worked as a municipal employee for decades but also needed to supplement his income via weekend security work. Another purveyor of classic old New York humor, Si could spit out jokes with all of the details of a master story teller. Unlike Lew, whose face lit up each time he launched into a routine, Si spun on without ever cracking a smile. The distance between his armor of defensive pessimism and the flight of his comedic sarcasm was slim. A rotund, gentle sort when he wasn’t telling raunchy jokes or barking at you, Si had a long association with the Trade Center. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Between Lew and Si, the entire history of the complex could be heard, peppered of course with a wild assortment of outlandish tales about strange co-workers and oddball happenings. I was amazed to hear that during the construction phase, security would have to man posts in upper floors prior to the installation of the ceiling-to-floor window panels. Guards would sit huddled in the center of an open, wind-blown floor avoiding at all costs the areas which might be frighteningly close to the edge. Those were the Wild West days. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They laughed about the real characters of WTC lore, some of which still worked there when I came along. I can recall Haley, a smallish, stocky man with slicked back grey hair and a bulbous, perennially red nose. Stories abounded of his bizarre behavior, particularly on the night shift when few might notice the flask in his back pocket. Haley had crashed the security golf cart into a wall of the Plaza some years prior to my arrival, thus guards were now forbidden to operate any kind of motorized vehicle on premises. No one ever let him forget it, least of all Haley himself, but his was a different take. “They all say I’m a drinkah cuz I got a red nose, but this here nose ain’t caused by no drinkin’”, he implored, “I got a medical condition”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Haley had also fallen several times on WTC property and reportedly had sued the Port Authority but retained his job over the decades. I imagined the Port bosses wishing he’d just go away. “They can never get rid a me---I got dem by de short hairs”, he would proudly proclaim.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There was also a night shift supervisor named Coughlin I am not soon to forget. A tall, dour man with a dry wit who one Saturday night attempted to actually heist a safe out of the Observation Deck’s office. He’d arranged for someone in maintenance to wait in a basement level as he and another accomplice lowered the filled safe down the freight elevator shaft on a chain. Someone apparently spilt the beans and Coughlin ended up lowering the safe to the police waiting below and the three were immediately arrested. The next morning as we entered command post expecting to see Coughlin finishing up his tour, we instead found a substitute who didn’t need a lot of persuading to relay the facts of the late-night escapade hours before. This could be an odd place. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And there was Elliot Steinmann. Here was a wonderfully social man who’d lived a fascinating life, filled with literature and music. In addition to a unique kind of learned Brooklynese, he spoke French quite fluently and shared his knowledge of disparate facts continuously in a mild, soft-spoken manner. Elliot had lived in Greenwich Village much of his life, but had also spent some years residing in Paris and Morocco where he managed jazz clubs, thus his wealth of knowledge extended into brilliance when he discussed John Coltrane, Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis, Red Norvo, Max Roach and other giants. He’d seen them perform live, in many cases right in his clubs, so came to know them as well. “Monk was a rare genius, John, but so introverted dat one could barely touch him…like a rare flower, a gift to da world, dat came briefly and den would be gone…” I was fascinated, but inwardly very suspect of the authenticity of his stories. How did he end up here? But his accounts were detailed enough to appear true and he proudly carried several aging photographs of himself posed with some of these musical heroes in order to quell the doubt. The one that stands out most is a slightly wrinkled back and white 5 x 7 of a darkened nightclub with Elliot, arms outstretched, beaming, sitting at the bar with four African American musicians all recognizable as Thelonious Monk’s quartet of the early 1960s. The band was on break, relaxed, and laughing together with the leader himself faintly chuckling over whatever was just uttered, looking downward and disconnected from Elliot’s gregarious embrace.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The stories of these great artists extended into his vast knowledge of film and poetry as well. Somehow his recitations of Keats, Byron, Woolf and Cummings never translated well through his slow-churning version of a New York working-class accent. Without warning, he would burst into French language verse he’d memorized, reciting as he looked up at his chosen audience through his dusty eyeglass lenses. Perhaps as a means toward balance, Elliot also offered tidbits such as, “Do you know the technical difference between a hobo, a bum and a tramp?” I feel the need to carry on the tradition and offer Elliot’s explanation that a “hobo”&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">travels seeking work, a “tramp” travels and sometimes seeks work, and a “bum” stays local and never seeks it. For an avowed liberal, Elliot’s take on the classes of homelessness was far from politically correct, but he succeeded in illustrating the pecking order of any social strata.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Of course, spending some significant time in the Concourse during early mornings, I did come to know some of the homeless, though usually not many by name.&nbsp; There were lots of travelers among them and always another to take the place left open by those who took to the streets, either willingly or by the force of the police. Harmonica Harry stayed for a couple of weeks, serenading visitors from his corner with an open box and a sign out front which read ‘<i>Music For Trade’</i>. Harry, in a warm but somewhat anxious Midwestern tone, explained that life had gotten in the way and he was unable to stop and settle down. He regretfully added that he’d never been able to stay sober long enough to finish school. But his music kept him going and often brought new people into his life. He loved playing “Skip To My Lou” with a gentle, organ-like full-mouthed accompaniment. His charming, folksy performances remain with me. Indeed, parts of Harry did settle in somewhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But the elders that passed through were also matched by the veteran staff who’d seen it all. A notable old-timer on our security force was Declan Tenney, who’d survived his tenure as weekday supervisor for years and years. A former Golden Glove boxer, he stood all of 5’ 5” tall but had a shoulders span to match his height. By the time I’d come to know him, Tenney was well into his 60s and his loss of teeth was apparent, but he maintained a thick head of silvery hair combed heartily to one side. A voice like a grinding wheel and a vocabulary which could only be described as classic New York, Tenney spat out verbal barbs with the velocity of his right-hook; a cut-up but a serious boss, too. Until he’d obviously crossed one of the brass who took him down in a vicious manner: Tenney descended from the supervisor’s desk to a lobby post which put him smack into the throngs of mid-week passersby; there was no hiding. Tenney had no choice but to grin and bear it as his wife also depended upon his salary. We saw him often on weekends after that, too, always available for overtime, always hungry.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Though little spoken of, many were aware of the divide which had existed between security officers who were white and those who were African-American. It seems that when the complex was still under construction, the security contractor hired two “classes” of guards—class A and class B, each who’d received a pay scale appropriate to their designation. But in this case the B really stood for “Black”. For some years in the 1970s, Lew, Si and the other whites worked for a higher amount than did the guards of color, up until the union came into the picture. Then, the tier system was done away with but some of the older Black guards remained suspicious. They were a mixed group of African-Americans and those originating in various parts of the Caribbean. Many were from Guyana and, in British fashion, preferred to be known not by their first names, but in the formal surname manner—Mr. Peabody, Mr. Palmer, Mr. Heffington, and Mr. Robertson among them. These gentlemen were dignified in their approach, with an&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">appreciation for the arts, a genteel eye for the ladies, and a keen awareness of their surroundings. Mr. Heffington, in his late 60s when I knew him, had been a police officer back in Guyana, and moved up the ranks to Lieutenant before immigrating to New York. Once landing on these shores he ended up in one of those initial B-guard positions, swallowing his pride but quietly carrying his police identification with him as a reminder. Years later, it was still a prideful thing. The words “Inspector – Lieutenant” embossed on the small enfolded ID with a photo of a younger, more relaxed Mr. Heffington on have not been forgotten. More so, the vision of him standing on post in one of the complex’s lobbies. He always stood taller than most and wore his uniform clean and starched.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When my regular post closed out, I moved to the Vertical Patrol assignments, walking the halls and stairwells of the Towers, examining the silent weekend world close-up.</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At the time Tower Two was largely filled with New York State agencies and on Friday evenings at 5 when they closed up, the floors went dark and vacuum-empty. Tower Two’s sectors known as Baker Two (floors 44-77) and Baker 3 (78-106) were especially lonely places, with floor after floor of utter darkness. The security company never had enough working flashlights so you got used to bringing your own. Turning a corner down a pitch-dark hallway was like entering the inner sanctum. We had radios but often they were breaking down or subject to going out of range, so you felt alone. I recall waving my flashlight back and forth, desperately trying to fill the blackness with some semblance of light, but this only made you think you saw ominous movement in the shadows. Reaching out for doorknobs in the blinding dark, trying to make sure the offices were secured, one’s hand glided over the walls and hoped to never find a crouching psychopath waiting to pounce. It all seems bizarre with the passage of time, but there in the sealed-in blackness, listening to the grinding sway of the building, it was much too real.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Weekend security officers had whole other lives Monday through Friday, so come Saturday morning we could be cranky and short of patience with each other, at times with the public too. Stuck with the economic need to be there, many of us hadn’t had a weekend off in years. Shortly after I began my job, I was able to bring in my girlfriend, Laurie---now my wife---into the fold. If we could not have weekends free, at least we were both in it together After braving a variety of posts, Laurie became our shift’s Security Dispatcher—a “6-3” in WTC lingo-- which really made her second in command to the shift Supervisor, the “6-2”. She was an excellent 6-3, handling in-coming transmissions over the radio from security officers with problems and Port Authority operations brass with issues. She made up the schedules, answered phones, would trouble-shoot as needed and ran role call when the boss could not be there. She needed to be in at the crack of dawn, so by this time I’d made enough to get my first car---a rattly 1976 Chevy Chevette---so we drove in together. Home is where the heart is. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Our boss, Ray, was a man who’d become a dear friend. He’d worked there in security for a long time and would eventually work his way up to a Port Authority operations supervisor job. He was a stern, dark-skinned man with enough height and depth of voice that many on staff avoided his glare at all costs, but we came to see Ray as a giving, caring guy with a wicked, hysterical sense of humor. He had a deep appreciation for film and we visited with him and his wife Angela to watch the latest video discs he’d purchased (yes, video discs, then the latest in hip technology). We also came to know his mother, finally retired after thirty years of working two full-time jobs. Visits to Ray’s not only offered the viewing of great films and technology—he also had an amazing sound system to play an array of greats CDs—but we learned of serious Southern cooking. Ray’s Mom maintained the menu when she’d moved up north as a young woman. The scents of corn bread, chicken, mac and cheese and greens wafted through the apartment when she was cooking. And though Ray said he hated to admit to cliché, the family loved watermelon so in summer there was an abundance of it. She watched with a bemused grin as I dug into my slice of the melon, juice running down my chin and back into the plate. “What’s wrong with this boy?” she laughed toward Ray. “I have to teach him to eat a piece of watermelon”. And she did. “Look, I gave you a knife---you are supposed to pick out the pits and then slice off chunks, not dive right in”. And after considerable coaching and a few run-throughs, I pretty much learned how to eat a piece of watermelon like a Southern gentleman. “These white city boys, Ray, I’ll tell ye…..”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As often happens, after Laurie and I left the Trade Center we had fewer contacts with Ray and Angela and the family, and then it fell into the intermittent with occasional calls and Christmas cards as the years rolled on. Trembling, I called Ray’s home on September 12, 2001 and was deeply thankful to learn that he’d received a transfer out of the WTC almost immediately <i>before</i> the 9/11 attacks. Physically safe but the loss to him was nothing short of devastating. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But a few others we knew had not been so lucky. They remain with us almost as myth, elevated through the waning years and tragedy. Among them were Lee, a large Chinese-American mechanic with a huge smile, thick accent and warm greeting. On weekends he could often be found hanging out with freight elevator operator Fernandez (yes, Army-like, people were often known only by last names). For unexplained reasons, every so often these two would argue and become bitter foes. The freight elevator doors would open and the sound of shouting could be heard echoing across the lobby as Lee would emerge flailing and yelling back and Fernandez’ arms could be seen swinging wildly, yelling back. The combination of accents and emotion made for an incoherent shout-fest that always ended with one or the other steaming over how he’d never talk to him again. By the following weekend, though, they were laughing together again. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There were also maintenance men Sanchez and DeStefano, who swept up in the lobbies even when no trash was visible. “Hey man, if the boss thinks you got nothin’ doin’, then he gonna reassign you. Shit, I don’t need no more to dooo”, Sanchez explained.&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">“Yeah”, DeStefano echoed, “These bosses are just waitin’ to trip you up. They sit on they fat asses all day and then come out to look fuh us doin’ somethin’ wrong. So I make sure I’m seen. Then I find a closet in ta take a nap in”. I learned of more than one broom closet which contained some of the very comfortable office furniture that went missing upon delivery. “Mine got a thick cushy chair and I use a box fuh a foot rest. Ha-ha, alls I need is a refrigeratuh and I’m in heaven. I could live in dere!” Often they were dodging the Port operations supervisor Russo, a harsh, abrupt man who hunted out employees like a shark. He could be cruel and references of his racism abounded through the complex. But I was told that when the building went down he was last seen running back in to help with rescues. His remains were never quite found.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">During the majority of my run at the World Trade Center, I held the assignment of “6-4”, Key-Run.</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This meant that I carried the majority of the keys to the complex on a series of jailer-like key-rings weighing my belt down. I was quite skinny back then so the pants always hung a bit and my belt was now working over-time. I opened locked doors when they needed to be opened, activated elevators and escalators at the start of my shift and did a patrol of the concourse’s stores. I opened up the outside garage ramps, located out on West Street and Barkley Street, and also took calls from the operations and security supervisors as needed. When a problem with an elevator occurred, they called me to check it out and start another if that one had gone out of service. The lobbies of both buildings were lined with shining, silver elevators which briskly took passengers up to the Sky Lobbies at floor 78. With a pop of the ears and a slight sickening of the stomach, this was the quickest way up. On weekends we kept just a couple of these elevators running, in eye-range of the guard assigned to the post nearby. On several occasions, trying to hurriedly get a car down from 78 to an angry group waiting in lobby, I found myself stuck in an elevator which crawled all the way down in its “inspect” mode, moving in slow motion for what seemed like an eternity. As I sat trapped, calls from annoyed Port bosses would be coming in and the jobs left to do would pile up. “Where the hell is the 6-4?!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Some of the operations brass could have a sense of humor, like Barry Galbrath who used the radio airwaves as a portal for dry humor. Calm in any situation, Barry knew his job well and relaxed everyone else with a laugh. He was a very intelligent brand of cut-up and when out of the company of the boys, could be engaged in compelling discussion about politics and other issues. But he was another of these urban intellectuals who’d seriously studied something or other in college and ended up in a job that was so far removed that he couldn’t figure out how to get back.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Another urban intellectual I enjoyed to speak to was operations supervisor, Mick Evigan. Mick was warm voiced detective-like character who loved engaging in debates on music and drama, right up till he was called back to reality by a radio call. Mick always lent a hand to the staff beneath him and he never made anyone feel that their station was of less importance than his own. When he found out that I was a writer and a musician, he immediately sought out&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">opportunities to discuss the arts. A purveyor of all things cultural hidden beneath a classic “NYPD Blue” exterior, Mick liked sharing tapes of albums he’d been moved by, everything from Miles Davis to Bob Dylan. He had a wonderfully eclectic taste in music and film and developed a fascination for David Lynch, then transforming from a cult figure to a celebrated filmmaker. Mick had a videotape copy of Lynch’s ‘Blue Velvet’ before it was available for purchase that he cautiously lent me :“You gotta be careful with this, John---my friend sneaked it out for me. Be careful. </span><i style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">And you <u>didn’</u>t get it from me!</i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">” I never knew exactly who the mysterious friend was or how he embarked on this dangerous mission, but I did enjoy ‘Blue Velvet’ before carefully rewinding and returned it to the hidden drop-off point.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">These operations supervisors were a varied group and one wondered how they all come into these positions. Few seemed particularly happy in their lot and yet even a supervisor such as angry Lou Russo demonstrated a softer side at points. On a warm day in May of ‘86 I can still recall him out on West Street participating in ‘Hands Across America’, the national bonding moment organized on most every land mass around the nation. 6.5 million people participated and millions of dollars were raised to help feed the hungry--these were the Reagan years, remember, and the shuttering of shelters, food pantries, senior centers and drug and psychiatric programs had taken its toll on the most vulnerable among us. The ‘Hands Across America’ human chain ran all along West Street, crossing just in front of Tower 1. Laurie and I were both on duty and unable to join the line, this historic notion of caring in a terribly conflicted time when the AIDS crisis ran wild under a president who’d barely uttered the name of the illness and who’d told the people that homelessness was a choice. This as televised celebrations of privilege, “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” and “Dallas”, scored huge ratings each week. Watching the line of strangers gather and reach out to one another, I considered that maybe there was a chance for real change in this country if the changes were people-driven. It was powerful imagery. Suddenly there was Russo bolting across the Tower lobby and out of the exit to be a part of the momentous occasion. Clutching the hands of those at either side, with eyes shut during that fifteen minute interlude, he appeared almost serene. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But then there was Rob DeForn, a short, paunchy, easily agitated guy with untrusting eyes who was the textbook Napoleon complex case study. DeForn could only be recalled as a despot and every employee knew his wrath. You just couldn’t find a ray of sunshine within him. We would trade DeForn war stories and several of the security and maintenance staff fully expected him to get jumped in the parking garage some night on his way home, left broken in a dumpster. A guy like DeForn, of course, was nowhere near the complex when trouble ensued. While, he may have been the worst of the worst, he was not unique in such a setting. More than a few of the characters one encountered in our weekend world-within-the-world could be harsh, desperately snarling at all who came near them. They were the ones who walked the sullen halls alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As Key-Run I came into intimate contact with all areas of the complex, from its sub-basement bowels up through the veins and arteries of its floors and stairwells. And one time in 1987 I made it to the roof of Tower 1. A verboten destination only visited by brave antenna technicians, Tower 1’s roof had no fence, no enclosed deck as did the South Tower, which hosted bands of visitors each day. The occasion for my appearance up top of Tower 1, forever burnt into my memory, was in preparation for the unveiling of the Statue of Liberty after several years of refurbishing. The scaffolding was now coming down to present a polished, torch-bearing beauty to a waiting public. At the same time, the nation was celebrating the bicentennial of the Constitution, so a huge fete was planned. A phalanx of ships were to fill the harbor that July 4</span><sup style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; line-height: 115%;">th</sup><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">, a gigantic fireworks display was to illuminate the sky above the Trade Center and New York was going to play host to an Independence Day like none before.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The week prior, the complex was already in high security mode and the operations and security staff were working with police and emergency services toward a safe, festive coming weekend. I was called up to the roof of Tower 1 to open up a caged-in electronics closet for the Port guys up there. Helicopters were scheduled to lower huge searchlights onto the roof, to light the ships down in the harbor during the big celebration. For me, getting up to that level was no easy feat; one had to have a special key from the Police Desk and then call in to the operations office to be buzzed in while turning the key. As the roof door opened up, a flood of sunlight momentarily pushed me back: here was the very roof of the 110<sup>th</sup> floor on a clear, bright summer afternoon. It took my breath away. I located the supervisor and handed him the key he needed. “Mike, can I hang around a moment? I have never been here before”. “Yeah, sure, go ahead. Everyone else is here”, he shrugged, looking toward the throng of cops, firemen and EMTs who were sitting along the edge of the roof, looking over in awe. I have always suffered from a fear of heights, truth be told, but it only kicks in when I am insecure, where I feel I may actually fall. So, here was a chance to look over the edge of the World Trade Center, from a view free of any kind of guard-rail, window or fencing. My worst nightmare, maybe, but one which was too tempting to pass up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I moved over, precariously, to where the emergency personnel were sitting. The edge of the building was equipped with a sort of window seat feature—a platform area one could be caught in in the event of a powerful wind; it was designed to prevent you from actually falling over the edge of the building. But on that day, it served as a box seat for the first responders who were mesmerized by the rare view. I came near the edge and then crawled on my bottom to this balcony above the city. With my jailer’s keys jangling and scraping the tar-covered roof, I gripped anxiously, inching my way over. Holding my breath, I moved from the roof itself into this safety platform, squeezing the railing around the lip as I painfully looked over. It was what the view must have been like from Mt. Olympus. Here’s why these guys were staring out with the calmest look on their faces I’d ever seen. It was mesmerizing. We were out in the open, but well above the fray. The Good Year blimp floated below us, as did a couple of prop planes.&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">We were sitting above even the clouds. Here’s the place where the sky met the steel girders and everything was right all around.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Laurie and I were married in June of 1988 and, moving onto our careers, we said goodbye to the weekend jobs and with them, our many WTC friends. Over the next few years, we spoke regularly of these folks, the good and the bad, as they became a part of our historic fabric. We enjoyed our free weekends and then I suddenly found myself unemployed in 1993, floundering as one does when a job ends and Unemployment Benefits become a fact of life. The weekends bled into the weekdays and I longed to get back to work. Driving into lower Manhattan one February day that year, the traffic became ensnarled in an impenetrable mass of honking car-horns. Every approach was blocked and it took just a while to find out what happened to suddenly paralyze everything</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">---</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">the World Trade Center had been bombed by a van filled with explosives.</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It had entered the complex through the Barkley Street Ramp that afternoon. The reports came out that the basement parking garage was destroyed and so was part of the lobby of Building One. My heart grew cold—did everyone get out okay? Yes, but the place was a mess. I was glad to learn that they were looking for experienced security guards, especially those with a knowledge of the complex and I surely had this. So I signed up. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My first day back was eye-opening, to be sure. The concourse stank of burnt ash and soot coated the walls and the air in front of you. The complex, now closed to the public, was one massive crime scene. I walked up to the makeshift command post and showed them the new ID I had been issued, as well as the security pass one needed to get anywhere. The regs now called for different color passes for different zones, different sectors, and the halls were crawling with ATF and FBI agents. Where a department store once thrived was now the operations center and the guards had traded their jackets and ties for navy blue jumpsuits with ‘Security’ splashed across the back. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The heat was mostly off, so I wore my coat beneath the jumpsuit during the mandatory 12 hour shifts. We were asked to bring our own flashlights and had to contend with a severe shortage of radios. Each guard was now on continuous Vertical Patrol, securing the vulnerable stairwells mostly, and a contingent of supervisors were flown in from around the country to lead special clean-up crews. Burning embers reddened our eyes and irritated our lungs and a gaping crater occupied much of what had been a gleaming lobby. It extended down several basement levels, looking ominously like the gate of damnation, smothered in brimstone. Like most, I was assigned to a special Vertical sector each day, without a radio so largely out of contact from any other human. We were watching for intruders and bomb-throwers, but God knows what we would do if we encountered them, sans communication or weaponry. The shifts were long, lonesome and cold and so I carried a couple of books with me to read during short breaks. Sitting in dimly lit stairwells, I got through two novels I’d always wanted to read, <u>Frankenstein</u> and&nbsp;</span><u style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">1984</span></u><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">, both tales of utter isolation. I guess I am a glutton for punishment, but the need for some kind of culture had to be responded to under such harsh conditions.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I was able to get back to work in my own field within three months and my recent experiences in the Trade Center began to meld with those of the decade prior. These faces and stories added to the legend, the one that lives apart from the everyday and is only called upon when old friends have a chance meeting. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I gave little thought to my old haunt for some eight years until that bright September morning with the memorable breeze.</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I drove to my workplace, a hospital in Park Slope, Brooklyn, I experienced an initial numbness at the radio announcer’s insane report of a plane striking one of the Towers. God, I thought, how in hell could they manage to hit that? Racing thoughts of old friends suddenly came to surface when the DJ broke in again: “Uuhhh, we just got another report…” And then nothing was the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One year later the awful stench of charred memories had dissipated but the gaping hole remained. The space where the Towers once stood was not the only emptiness we’d come to know. The loss of lives and lifestyles met the encroachment of civil liberties and the rise of suspicion. The war without end commenced and it was accompanied by fear-mongering and flag-waving and freedom fries. And the crass nationalism which deemed dissent “Un-American”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On that first anniversary, Laurie and I walked the Brooklyn Heights Promenade overlooking the East River and the pristine view of lower Manhattan. That still September evening as hundreds of Brooklynites strolled silently, facing a Manhattan island which would forever remain altered, two glorious beams of light reached skyward, claiming and memorializing our weekends from so long ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">*******<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">AND NOW IN QUIETUDE</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">, </span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I recall the events of ’93 and the tragedy of 2001 along with that first anniversary as parts of the whole, enmeshed, a part of the history. &nbsp;A part of me. In quietude, I can remember. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I can remember those lost weekends and whirring elevators and strange stories and the sun’s reflection on the Towers’ metallic faces. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And I can remember my conversations with friendly tourists and interested visitors: the quaint German man who stared up at the buildings from a bench on the outdoor Plaza on a cool fall afternoon. He said NYC was a remarkable place. I told him I’d always been fascinated with Berlin, his home, and how he probably overlooked its wonders as New Yorkers do of this particular view. As we stared up together. And the elderly woman compelled to fix all of the</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;">floral fixtures in the lobby that others visitors had lean ed on; she asked if I was the watchman. I told her I was as I loved to see it all.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now with eyes shut, I can see and feel the WTC Concourse with its shops, bars and train stations, occupied in equal proportions by expense-account brokers, zealous visitors, hardworking people trying to get by and destitute homeless simply trying to live. And then I can remember.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">&nbsp;Crowds of families standing excitedly on long lines to marvel over the view from the Observation Deck, while the privileged few sparkled at Windows on the World restaurant, out of sight, far above, out of reach. Opposite poles of equal height. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The weekend-quiet halls, vacuum-like empty corridors after everyone went home. And the purple carpets and white marble and chrome of the lobbies. The seemingly unbreakable windows and unceasing structure. And the six sub-basements, the layers within. There too life thrived, but it did so in shadows. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">No act of violence or vengeance can disappear the times our lives are built upon.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">###<o:p></o:p></span></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2016/09/essay-landscape-of-110-stories-fifteen.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-8661219028796338214Sun, 07 Aug 2016 00:09:00 +00002016-08-06T17:11:16.600-07:00DISSIDENT ARTS FESTIVAL 2016<div style="border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-deBANSahK5o/V6Z75lsHBBI/AAAAAAAABoM/I_R8xVijlREE3UaeAGXuzQFpz_Poicv6gCLcB/s320/Literary%2BWarriors%2Bw%2BAmina%2B-photo%2Bby%2BMatthew%2BWeinstein.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="border: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="border: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt;"><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="border: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;impact&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">Press Contact:</span></i><i><span style="font-family: &quot;impact&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Estrangelo Edessa&quot;;"> </span></i><i><span style="font-family: &quot;impact&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 18.0pt;">N</span></i><i><span style="font-family: &quot;impact&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">ew </span></i><i><span style="font-family: &quot;impact&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 18.0pt;">M</span></i><i><span style="font-family: &quot;impact&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">asses</span></i><i><span style="font-family: &quot;impact&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;"> Media <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="border: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">John Pietaro (646) 599-0060&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; leftmus@earthlink.net&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; www.DissidentArts.com<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><u><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">New York, NY</span></u></b><b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">: Dissident Arts Festival Speaks Out Against Trump Over 3 Nights of Music, Spoken Word, Film<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">The Dissident Arts</span><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Festival, the 11<sup>th</sup> annual showcase of “revolutionary creativity”, will occur on three stages in as many nights this August, featuring music, spoken word and performance art, and closing with the screening of a silent film complete with a live score performed by some of NYC’s current new music coterie. This year’s Festival occurs at sites in both downtown and uptown Manhattan as well as Williamsburg Brooklyn. <i>This 2016 Dissident Arts Festival is dedicated to the people’s unity in the face of a divisive Right-wing. Performers will use this opportunity to make definitive statements in <u>opposition</u>to the hateful rhetoric of DONALD TRUMP.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">A highlight of the Festival will be <b>the celebrated poet and activist AMINA BARAKA</b> who will be accompanied by John Pietaro’s spoken word/free jazz quartet <b>THE LITERARY WARRIORS</b>. The poetry of Ms. Baraka, the widow of noted poet/journalist Amiri Baraka, has been woefully under-acknowledged in the face of her husband’s storied career, thus her performance on August 13 is viewed as an event of high relevance. She will be reading current poetry as well as that which dates back some 50 years in preparation for an upcoming recording session. The Literary Warriors perform an opening set. Other features include <b>THE NEW YORK FREE QUARTET</b> performance of Steve Cohn’s epic piece <b><i>“Abstract Meets the Fundamental”</i></b> which fuses religious music of several cultures into an avant jazz foray. Plus: the visiting Chilean improvisational guitarist <b>LUIS TOTO ALVAREZ</b> and his <b>CHANGO</b> project; &nbsp;saxophonist <b>RAS MOSHE</b>’s<b> <i>“Black Lives Matter Suite”</i></b>, the powerfully militant jazz/poetry of <b>UPSURGE</b>! <b>NYC</b> and a set by downtown stalwart <b>TRUDY SILVER</b> and her multi-disciplinary <b><i>“Where’s the Outrage?”</i></b> project, as well as a performance by singer-guitarist <b>BERNARDO PALOMBO</b> and his <i>neuva</i> neuva cancion ensemble. &nbsp;<b>THE DISSIDENT ARTS ORCHESTRA</b> closes this year’s Festival with a live score to the 1928 silent film classic by King Vidor <i>“The Crowd”</i> which will be projected on three big screens.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">For more information visit www.DissidentArts.com<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><u><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">FESTIVAL SCHEDULE:<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><u><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Friday August 12, 8-11pm<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">5C Cultural Center</span></b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">68 Ave C (at 5<sup>th</sup> Street) New York NY 10009<i> </i>(212) 477-5993&nbsp;&nbsp; www.5cculturalcenter.org<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">8:00pm Trudy Silver’s Where’s the Outrage?-</span></i></b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Trudy Silver-piano, word; Newman Baker- percussion, voice; Sanae Buck- Bhutto mime; others TBA<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">9:00pm Ras Moshe’s Music Now! Unit presents “The Black Lives Matters Suite</span></i></b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">”-Ras Moshe Burnett-tenor and soprano saxophones, flute; Lee Odom-soprano saxophone, clarinets; Matt Lavelle- trumpet, bass clarinet; Gwen Laster-viola; Emma Alabaster-bass; John Pietaro-percussion.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">10:00pm Luis Toto Alvarez/Chango project-</span></i></b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Luis Toto Alvarez- electric guitars; others TBA<b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">10:45pm <u>finale</u>: “Song of the United Front” by Bertolt Brecht &amp; Hanns Eisler </span></i></b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">-performed by all musicians in the house</span><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><u><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Saturday August 13, 7-11pm<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">El Taller Latino Americano</span></b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">&nbsp; @Artspace PS109<i> &nbsp;&nbsp;</i>215 East 99 Street, New York NY<i>&nbsp; </i>(212) 665-9460&nbsp; www.tallerlatino.org<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">7:00pm The Literary Warriors with special guest AMINA BARAKA </span></i></b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">– Amina Baraka- poetry, vocals; John Pietaro- spoken word, hand drums, percussion; Ras Moshe Burnett- saxophones, flute; Rocco John Iacovone- saxophones; Laurie Towers- electric bass<b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">8:00pm Bernardo Palombo Ensemble - </span></i></b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">Bernardo Palombo- vocals, guitar; others TBA</span><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">9:00pm&nbsp; UpSurge! NYC</span></i></b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> –Raymond Nat Turner-poetry; Zigi Lowenberg-poetry; Ken Filiano-upright bass; Lou Grassi-drumset; Lee Odom-reeds</span><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">10:00pm The New York Free Quartet presents Steve Cohn’s “Abstract Meets the Fundamental”</span></i></b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">–Steve Cohn-piano, shakuhachi, trombone, percussion; Michael Moss-saxophones, bass clarinet, flute; Larry Roland-upright bass; Chuck Fertal-drumset</span><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">11:00 <u>finale</u>: “Song of the United Front” by Bertolt Brecht &amp; Hanns Eisler</span></i></b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"> &nbsp;-performed by all musicians in the house<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><u><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Saturday August 27, 8-11PM<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">17 Frost Theatre of the Arts</span></b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">&nbsp; </span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">17 Frost Street, Brooklyn NY 11211<i>&nbsp; </i>(646) 389-2017&nbsp;&nbsp; www.17frost.com<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">8:00 The Dissident Arts Orchestra performs a live score to King Vidor’s 1928 silent film classic, “The Crowd”,&nbsp; plus silent shorts &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">-&nbsp;</span></i></b><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">Cheryl Pyle- flutes; Ras Moshe Burnett- tenor and soprano saxophones, flute; Matt Lavelle- bass clarinet; Javier Miyares-Hernandez- electric guitar Chris Forbes- keyboards; Laurie Towers- electric bass; John Pietaro- conduction, drumset, percussion</span><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">FESTIVAL HISTORY:</span></u><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Since its inception in 2006, the Dissident Arts Festival has been a powerful vehicle to bridge radical&nbsp;arts&nbsp;to&nbsp;progressive socio-political activism. Increasingly, the Festival has gained media attention over the course of its decade-long history as evidenced by press in <i>TimeOut NY</i>, <i>the Indypendent</i>, <i>the Villager</i>, <i>Downtown Express</i>, <i>Peoples World,</i> <i>Chronogram</i>&nbsp;and others. In 2013, noted jazz journalist Howard Mandel offered kudos in his remarks on social media.&nbsp;Over the years the Dissident Arts Festival has been endorsed by the Rosenberg Fund for Children, the Len Ragozin Foundation, Local 802's Justice for Jazz Artists campaign, Occupy Musicians, the Howland Cultural Center and <i>DooBeeDooBeeDoo </i>music blog.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Originally based in the Hudson Valley city of Beacon NY and moving to New York City in 2010, the Festival’s performers and speakers over the years included actor/raconteur <b>Malachy McCourt</b>, late great trumpet player <b>Roy Campbell</b>, folk legend <b>Pete Seeger</b>, filmmaker <b>Kevin Keating</b>, spoken word artists <b>Steve Dalachinsky</b> and the late <b>Louis Reyes Rivera</b>, the late reeds player/composer <b>Will Connell</b>, political satirist/activist <b>Randy Credico</b> , multi-instrumentalist <b>Daniel Carter</b>, hip hop ensemble <b>ReadNex Poetry Squad</b>, labor leader <b>Henry Foner</b>, punk-folk artist <b>Lach</b> and many more. Films screened included <i>‘Giuliani Time’</i>, ‘<i>Cultures of Resistance’</i>, ‘<i>Salt of the Earth’</i>, <i>‘Battleship Potemkin’</i> and <i>‘Metropolis’</i>. Other special features were tributes to Paul Robeson, Bertolt Brecht, Woody Guthrie, and Phil Ochs. The Dissident Arts Festival has also offered a voice to progressive political candidates, the Occupy movement and radical labor organizations. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial narrow&quot; , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">####<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="border: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2016/08/dissident-arts-festival-2016.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-818550951842313552Sat, 30 Jul 2016 18:59:00 +00002016-07-30T11:59:56.183-07:00Frank Gant: Essence Beyond the Illness, 'NYC Jazz Record' feature, Aug 2016<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iIcI7w4oO1c/V5z48vsTMZI/AAAAAAAABmI/6xvEZeZldKoruB3qZmgmThK08IE9OoCnQCLcB/s1600/Frank%2BGant.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iIcI7w4oO1c/V5z48vsTMZI/AAAAAAAABmI/6xvEZeZldKoruB3qZmgmThK08IE9OoCnQCLcB/s320/Frank%2BGant.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">NYC Jazz Record, August 2016</span></i><b><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">FRANK GANT: Essence Beyond the Illness<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When celebrated drummer Frank Gant first moved into his Lower East Side apartment, the community had been battered by decades of neglect. These days, in the midst of arduous gentrification, the area stands among the most sought-after in a city notorious for displacing its poor. And for an octogenarian stricken with Huntington’s disease and embattled by his landlord, downtown has become a bitterly cold place. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Gant was raised in Detroit, first exposed to the drums in a school band where he quickly came to the attention of peers Barry Harris and Hugh Lawson. “The band director told me I will never be able to play professionally”, he said, with a restrained laugh. “But I practiced. I was serious. Played in my basement every day and I took lessons.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The drummer’s words were labored, but intent on being heard. His voice, broken with coarse spastic utterances, channeled lasting memories. “Barry, Hugh and I played together, but my first record date wasn’t until 1954 with the Billy Mitchell Band. It was a 7-piece”, he stated. As he searched his memory, Gant’s eyes became riveted, indicating an excitement stifled, perhaps manacled, by illness. “Right after that, I recorded with Sonny Stitt”. This was the event that put him into the category of top-flight sidemen. Among the gigs that came along in the immediate period were several revered nights accompanying Billie Holiday.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Frank served as house drummer at Club 12, a Detroit space which hosted giants including Thelonious Monk. He quickly moved beyond local status and began touring with a wide array of musicians. During one of these road trips he crossed paths with Charlie Parker. “Bird was the man. That’s all there’s to say”, Gant affirmed. “I asked him which drummer he liked best, Max Roach or Roy Haynes”, he reminisced, citing Parker’s groundbreaking percussionists. “Bird said it was Max”. Gant, too, viewed Roach as the master, the architect of modern jazz drumming, while also honoring Haynes. “Be-Bop. That’s what I played. I don’t care who I played with, but I played Be-Bop”, he added tersely.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Other decisive factors in Gant’s career included several gigs with Miles Davis. “I met Miles in Detroit and played in his band with Red Garland and Reggie Workman”. He also performed with Lester Young and came to drive many ensembles at home or on tour. Recording dates with Harris were followed by those with Donald Byrd, JJ Johnson and Yusuf Lateef, leading names of the day as post-Bop cast new genres to a hungry listening public.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“And then in 1960 I came to New York to play a gig at the Apollo--and stayed. Every club had music then. Uptown, downtown, everywhere.” Gant rarely refused work as he was raising a young family. The drummer picked up a regular spot in Harlem with organist Bobby Foster but also performed in this period with Ernestine Anderson, George Coleman and Monty Alexander, gigging quite regularly at the Village Vanguard, the Village Gate and countless other spots. Concurrently, Gant joined Ahmad Jamal’s band, the leader he was most closely associated with over the years.&nbsp; Publicity photos of the day feature the dashing drummer behind a set of glimmering Sonors, indicating the level of esteem he carried. As a member of the Jamal band during a seminal period, he recorded albums such as “Heat Wave” (1966), “Cry Young” (1967), among many others. The band was also captured in concert to great effect on several other releases.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In the 1970s, ‘80s and ‘90s—and into the early 2000s, Gant’s touring and recording schedule rarely if ever let up. In addition to the full-time gig with Jamal, he played in bands led by Al Haig, and was called back into service for major label record dates with Garland, Stitt, Anderson, Lateef and Johnson. This steady pulse that bridged decades, however, only wavered his course when his own hands came to betray him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HUNTINGTON’S DISEASE WAS ONCE KNOWN AS HUNTINGTON’S CHOREA due to the dysrhythmia which causes arms to flail, legs to wander. This is the terrible irony for Gant. As he emoted during <i>the NYC Jazz Record</i> interview, he demonstrated the illness’s manifestations, reaching repeatedly into the space in front, perhaps ongoing perseveration, perhaps a means to ground himself. Beyond his chair was a small drumkit, spare pieces, really. A mini bass drum, snare drum, mismatched tom-tom, conga, and tabla stood beckoning. Gant ambled awkwardly over, his body threatening to misdirect each step. But once seated behind his instrument, spastic movements became swinging drumstick dances over cymbals and skins. His eyes remained riveted, unmoved, but a certain burning essence fought to surface from deep within.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div style="border: solid windowtext 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt;"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 4.0pt 1.0pt 4.0pt; padding: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">Cards, letters or donations for Frank Gant can be sent to him care of the Jazz Foundation<o:p></o:p></span></i></div></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2016/07/frank-gant-essence-beyond-illness-nyc.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-8427568434877030521Sat, 30 Jul 2016 18:50:00 +00002016-07-30T11:50:41.786-07:00Steve Swallow: The Vision Forward, cover story, 'NYC Jazz Record' Aug 2016<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0u7zoxHwtso/V5z2uO2QuFI/AAAAAAAABmA/9faSDRc3oTsnLZYv6UlZiGbeV5hIRJ0jwCLcB/s1600/jazz%2Brecord%2Bswallow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0u7zoxHwtso/V5z2uO2QuFI/AAAAAAAABmA/9faSDRc3oTsnLZYv6UlZiGbeV5hIRJ0jwCLcB/s1600/jazz%2Brecord%2Bswallow.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">“NYC Jazz Record”, August 2016</span></i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">STEVE SWALLOW : The Vision Forward<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">By John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Iconic bassist Steve Swallow has lived out his career thus far by rarely reflecting back. His path has been one of storied turns continually leading to the next stage. “I try not to pause and look backward”, he said. “Every now and then my thoughts wander to the past, but I’m focused ahead.” In his pursuit to the front line, however, Swallow made detailed investigations into the music’s heritage, if only to ratify a foray into newer ground. His place on the cusp of fusion and development of the electric bass within jazz have each left an indelible mark on the past half-century, and then some.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Born in 1940 and raised in New Jersey suburbia, Swallow’s teen years were faced with “an immense pressure to conform” socially and within familial expectations: “These were the Eisenhower years”, he explained. “Institutions like home, camp, school and church were concerned with producing a human product of a very certain kind”. Within music he found a degree of escape from the ‘<i>home, God and country’</i> ethic, but his immersion into the sounds didn’t really germinate until commencing studies at Yale in 1959.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">The bassist cut his musical baby teeth lugging an upright around Boston, entrenched in the traditional jazz scene then experiencing a wave of popularity among the cognoscenti. He found himself in some heavy company, primarily legendary clarinetist Pee Wee Russell. &nbsp;“Pee Wee was a unique voice but remarkably adaptive---this is something I’ve always aspired to.&nbsp; What came out of his horn was always unexpected but very firmly grounded in solid theory and the jazz idiom”. Russell’s repertoire, by the earliest ‘60s, expanded into the modern, braving adverse responses from traditional jazz aficionados. He appeared at Newport with Thelonious Monk and experimented with a pianoless quartet. That sense of adventure in one so rooted in tradition stayed with the young bassist. Swallow also worked with the woefully under-recognized drummer George Wettling. “George caught me at a point in my evolution and taught me things only drummers can know. He was a magnificent musician and an excellent painter who studied in that discipline with Stuart Davis”, he attested.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">As enamored as Swallow was with some of the stars of the early style, he is wont to focus on the music’s primary attribute. “Too often we look at the famous soloists but early jazz is really an ensemble music. I immediately heard echoes of this in the so-called free jazz idiom, so later it wasn’t strange for me to abandon the expected role of the bassist and enter an ensemble approach. As you get older you’re privileged to have an overview of the cycles. There have been innovators who’ve carried the music into distinct paths, but on the other hand nothing has changed. Louis Armstrong is as relevant today as he was in the 1920s. This is the way of art”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">As a living testament to this thesis, Swallow’s involvement in new realms began in tandem to his Dixieland gigs. In 1960 he played a concert with the forward-looking pianist-composer Paul Bley that was produced by the like-minded Ran Blake. And then nothing was the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="background: #BDD6EE; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-shading-themecolor: accent1; mso-shading-themetint: 102;">“Music must connect to its time and place”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="background: #BDD6EE; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-shading-themecolor: accent1; mso-shading-themetint: 102;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">&nbsp;“I left school and presented myself at Paul and Carla Bley’s doorstep in Manhattan, you know: ‘Your bass player is here’. Paul saw possibilities in my playing that must’ve been quite subtle at the time. I was a novice bassist and had no business going to New York then. Luckily Paul took me seriously and spent day after day playing with me”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">While on the cutting-edge, Swallow initially earned a living playing Dixieland in Greenwich Village. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">His arrival in NYC occurred in a time when Village bohemianism could still be a reality. Engrossed in rehearsals with Paul Bley, he spent nights gigging in the traditional jazz venues and also playing avant works with Jimmy Giuffree and George Russell. These conceptual composer-improvisers forced Swallow to rethink the role of the bass. “I was 20 years old and working hard, but what an amazing time. I had a loft on 6<sup>th</sup> Avenue near 24<sup>th</sup> Street for $40 a month”, the bassist remembered. “Every coffee house had live music and they paid each musician $5 and all of the coffee you can drink. I was finally free of the white middle class life I’d lived till that point”. In this fledgling period, the bassist also listened to modern composers and contemporary popular music as well: “I was introduced to Erik Satie’s music by Carla; he was in the air, a presence in much of what we were doing. Carla was seldom performing then but writing music every day, all day. I’d never seen a composer up close before and she had a very strong influence on me. She also introduced me to the Supremes. This was also a great shock, a revelation”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">True to his stand against nostalgia for its own sake, Swallow laces his memories with metaphor. In speaking of personal growth, he drew conclusions about wider shifts in society. “Change is a process that involves destruction but also regeneration and rebirth. This impulse repeats itself in each generation of artists. Those coffee houses were supporting jazz musicians but in a very few years rock-n-roll and folk music descended upon that street and wiped out the jazz gigs”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">In the jazz universe the matter of radical change played itself out in a small club on the Lower East Side, where a certain artist’s residency had the industry in a tumult. “I practically lived at the 5-Spot when Ornette Coleman was there. His sound was very warm and inviting, though more than other musicians Ornette was testing boundaries. The infusion of folk sources were perceived as an assault, a challenge to everything known and played, but in retrospect his was a gentle music”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Discussion of Ornette inevitably led to Swallow’s memories of the other principal mover of the era, John Coltrane. “At the 5-Spot one night Ornette and Coltrane sat at a table together. There was an aura of common purpose that belied the controversy going on around them. I’ll never forget it: a unified glow radiating from the table. They were deep in discussion for a long time which the entire room was aware of but dared not disturb”. Coleman’s and Coltrane’s reimagining of the milieu had a dramatic effect on the young bassist, as did the advances of Eric Dolphy, whom he played with in George Russell’s aggregation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">In the mid-60s, after touring with Art Farmer, Swallow got the call to join Stan Getz’ band, then at the height of its popularity.&nbsp; “The sound of Stan’s horn made me focus on how important the primacy of sound is. Hearing his sound in a room, as opposed to on records, was earth shattering”. The gig also paired him with the iconic drummer Roy Haynes for the first time as well as vibraphonist Gary Burton.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">In 1968, Swallow departed Getz’ band to join Burton’s newly-formed combo, which included Haynes and firebrand guitarist Larry Coryell. The band reached forward in scope and became a feature in jazz festivals as well as major rock hubs where they opened for the likes of Cream and the Electric Flag. “I found it fascinating that jazz could move in circles so vastly different. I had been playing clubs were people wore suits”, but this Quartet wore pop culture’s fringe jackets and long hair, and offered arrangements of hits like Bob Dylan’s “I Want You”. The latter featured Swallow’s bass on melody. Steve Swallow remains a close member of the vibist’s circle. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">In 1970, in what became a life-altering moment, Steve stumbled upon the electric bass guitar.</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">&nbsp; </span><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">Though he initially carried both instruments to gigs, his focus landed solely on the electric. “The decision was purely based on the physical essence of the instrument. I picked it up and fell in love with it: the length of the finger board, the feel of it, the presence of the frets. I didn’t want to sound like James Jamerson or Duck Dunn, I still wanted to be Percy Heath but I just wasn’t able to put the electric down. I thought ‘Oh shit!’, and was faced with having to explain using this instrument to others when it had been seen as anathema to the jazz community”. Truly secured in his ax, Swallow began touring and recording with a wide array of artists in the decades to follow including Pat Methaney, Paul Motian, Joe Lovano and Michael Mantler, and also began leading ensembles of his own. And while teaching at the Berklee College of Music he began a lasting relationship with John Scofield which bore fruit in the ‘80s and continues on. The pair recently recorded an album of C&amp;W music, </span><i style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">Country for Old Men</i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;, serif;">.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Likewise, Swallow can trace back his annual August performance with Steve Kuhn and Joey Barron. “Our reunion is really just old friends shooting the breeze”, he remarked. And this month he’ll also be performing with a new quartet, Monk Revisited. The band, playing reconstructions of Thelonious Monk works, is an experiment for all involved. “I’m curious to see how it turns out”, he said, smiling. And while Swallow claims to struggle through each piece he composes (“I’m glacial”), his writing too has grown with the years. He is now plotting a new quintet album for ECM.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">Surely the most visceral of Swallow’s collaborations is that with Carla Bley, the bassist’s life-partner of many years. “There’s something that happens when you spend 56 years in someone’s music. This is something you have to wait a lifetime to experience. The wonders of it and of living with her are equally astonishing. Carla gets up every morning and asks herself, ‘what if?’”. Bley has often used the stage as a platform of protest against right-wing oppression. Of this Swallow commented with pride: “We both feel compelled to address what’s going on in this nation, this election cycle. Carla’s immediate response has been ‘National Anthem’, a drastic reworking of ‘the Star Spangled Banner’. It’s now been added to our performance repertoire”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">“Music must connect to its time and place”.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2016/07/steve-swallow-vision-forward-cover.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-4449889070958584645Fri, 29 Jul 2016 20:19:00 +00002016-07-29T13:22:04.694-07:00CYRO BAPTISTA, cover story, NYC Jazz Record<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: &quot;helvetica neue&quot; , &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; line-height: 17.12px;"><i>NYC JAZZ RECORD</i>, August 2016</span></span></h3><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">CYRO BAPTISTA: Forging the Alliance of Sound</span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZNRX2a2WG9Y/V5u5tzsYtLI/AAAAAAAABlg/DI-2Y7KOWpEO5zt3cpzsReEGjzkVTKPyQCLcB/s1600/Jazz%2BRecord%2BBaptista.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZNRX2a2WG9Y/V5u5tzsYtLI/AAAAAAAABlg/DI-2Y7KOWpEO5zt3cpzsReEGjzkVTKPyQCLcB/s1600/Jazz%2BRecord%2BBaptista.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Percussionist Cyro Baptista has lived in the US for well over thirty years since relocating from his native Brazil. The trail has taken him around the globe many times, sharing the stage and studio with many of the most relevant artists of free improvisation, world music, jazz, experimental composition, and some of the best of pop music too. Perhaps it is due to his status as a traveler, but Baptista has never stopped seeking out the community within the music—in any locale it takes him to. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Baptista was introduced to music performance in elementary school where the local music teacher engaged the children in the building of percussion instruments as well as in playing them. “My first instrument was a hollowed out coconut shell”, he recalled fondly, “and when I brought it the ensemble, this simple thing became something great we could do together”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">His immersion in the Brazilian music tradition introduced the percussionist to many instruments as he crafted his own expression and developed that sense of ensemble which remains so meaningful to him. Baptista traveled to New York in 1980; though he was soon to become a <i>downtown</i> stalwart, his initial destination was considerably further north. “I was given a full scholarship to attend the Creative Music Studio up in Woodstock. It was an incredible time to be there”, he explained, still reflecting on his work with Karl Berger and Ingred Sertso with a sense of wonder. “The best musicians in the world came through that program; Don Cherry was a regular! Every day, a new experience.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">After considerable immersion in CMS’ unique approach to improvisation and performance, Baptista decided to move into the City and into the burgeoning new music scene. “I lived on the Lower East Side to be near the music---and it was so cheap then! It wasn’t long before I became friends with John Zorn and Marc Ribot. They were great to me. I played a lot on the streets, trying to get to know people, but I hardly knew any English. I picked up a lot of, um, bad words immediately---but I didn’t know what they meant”, he said laughing. “It took me a while to realize I couldn’t use ‘M.F.’ in every sentence, but it was brought to my attention at a big artsy party on the Upper East Side. That was an eye-opener. My English is still not so great”, he injected with a smile, “Sometimes I think I speak like Tarzan. But back then, it was really rough!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Cyro began playing gigs at now rather legendary performance spaces in the fertile terrain of downtown, 1980, where experimental composition and free improv tangled deliciously with punk rock and electronica. He found the mélange to be a refreshing change. “Once I became a part of the musical scene down there, a big door opened for me”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">His instrumental voice liberated, Baptista was among a growing brood that soon became known as the avant apex of the day. “We used to play these gigs at the old Knitting Factory on Houston Street, but none of us were well known yet. The audience didn’t come at first--it could be a really tough neighborhood--but after a while, the word spread. John Zorn worked very hard to make it happen and we played together a lot. All of us struggled so much early on but we created that community of sound. People stood together.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The list of pertinent composers and songwriters, improvisers and many other performers that Baptista encountered in the years since can fill volumes. His work with Zorn is well chronicled but Cyro also spent considerable time with the late percussion master Nana Vasconcelos, whom he considers his “inspiration”. Walking in such good company opened Baptista up to performance opportunities ranging from gigs with founding ‘no wave’ guitarist Arto Lindsay to globally renowned cellist Yo Yo Ma. Along the way, he performed and/or recorded with Sting, David Byrne, Dr. John, Phoebe Snow, Janis Ian, Gato Barbieri, Geri Allen, Trey Anastasio, the Chieftans, James Carter, Edie Brikell, Bobby McFerrin, Cassandra Wilson, Richard Stoltzman, Herbie Mann, Tony Bennet and the list goes on. Cyro enjoys every facet of his role as a percussionist, whether playing the traditional berimbau, hand drums, tearing up racks of blocks, bells and cymbals, or playing what he calls “transparent percussion”, the subtle touches that lie almost inaudibly on a track. His has been a rather storied career.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When Derek Baily, the master improviser and theorist, approached Baptista early on for a recording date, the percussionist jumped at the chance to make his debut recording. “Derek asked me to record with him and so I went and we just played. I never thought anything more of it and assumed it hadn’t been released. Some years later, I was touring in the UK with Nana, and a man came up to me excitedly saying, ‘You’re Cyro!’ and waving this album at me. It was Derek’s record. I was shocked to see that not only had it come out, but Derek had named it <i>Cyro</i>. This was very moving. Soon after we engaged in a pub tour”, he recalled. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But it hasn’t all been freewheeling music. Baptista explained: “I toured and recorded with Paul Simon for six years. He was a very particular kind of songwriter—he allowed the musicians room to create but then was strict about parts being played the same way every time. The band was amazing: Steve Gadd, Richard Tee, Michael Brecker…wow. I had been used to clubs, halls, but with Paul I learned how to play to 30,000 people! We did <i>the Concert in Central Park</i>, played around the world in stadiums”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And what of Herbie Hancock? “He’s Number One. I actually rate my career on what I did before I met him, and after. After Herbie, I was never just a side-man again. The connection we had went beyond music—I became a Buddhist through his example. Musically, everything was so open, the expectations for the band to CREATE every moment was so high. He approached me once, saying he was very happy with what I played but he noticed some of the same phrases night after night. He said I needed to play something new each time”, Baptista laughed. “So I went from a leader that always wanted everything the same to one that never wanted you to repeat yourself.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The percussionist has been an active composer for years and founded several ensembles which feature aspects of his musical breadth. But he works to build the sense of ensemble in each situation. “Every time I play it’s a different set-up. I’m always experimenting with sounds. For certain gigs, I will learn to play a new instrument. These days I’m killing myself to learn the balafon, spending five hours a day practicing. It’s like starting over, but we should never stop growing”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Here is where tradition can take wing: “Once you learn the roots of your instrument then you can go anywhere. When I moved to the US I learned the washboard, an American musical manifestation. And when I formed the band Beat the Donkey I knew I needed to include a tap dancer for the same reason”, he offered. “But you must first conquer the roots; that’s where you’ll find the instrument’s genetic code”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Beat the Donkey (the translation of a Brazilian expression for “Let’s go!”), a true fusion of culture and genre, has been a main Baptista vehicle these past 15 years. He boldly added adaptations of King Crimson and Led Zeppelin into an already expansive repertoire, at times to the chagrin of concert hall administrators.&nbsp; Still, his work isn’t limited to this band. A case in point is Baptista’s newly released disc <i>Bluefly</i> (Tzadik label), inspired by the title insect’s ability to travel mass distances on the back of a large animal, another metaphor for the leader’s journey. It features a pair of musicians from Sting’s band and a bevy of guest artists. And then there’s the percussionists featured spot on Jamie Saft’s new album <i>Sunshine Seas</i> (Rare Noise).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">However, this month the focus is on Banquet of the Spirits, yet another band under his leadership. Several members of the assemblage (pianist Brian Marsella, Shanir Blumenkranz on bass, sinter and oud, and drummer Gil Oliveira) will perform along with special guests in a Jazz at Lincoln Center concert this month. The event is Baptista’s tribute to Heitor Villa-Lobos, Brazil’s greatest composer, and an extension on a project began a generation ago, ‘Vira-Loucos Villa-Lobos’. He ranks this upcoming concert as one of the highlights of his work, a chance to both celebrate and reconstruct this master’s music.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In many ways, this brings it all back home for Baptista, as does the goal of inspiring coming generations. “In addition to writing music, Villa-Lobos ran a program for school children to perform his choral works all over Brazil. Every year they’d pull these choirs together for a concert in a soccer stadium”. In this regard, Baptista has been facilitating a project with drummer Kenny Wollesen, “The Sound of Community”, which brings music programs to economically deprived areas. “We’ve done this in Mexico so far, but plan to extend it further. We create instruments with old people, children, workers—and then together all of us create compositions for these instruments. In the end, we hold a concert with them. The program allows even the poorest people to see the possibilities”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">“Music is music, but we keep changing”, the percussionist relayed. “In the end we can bring it back to what it was in the beginning, when people sat around a fire for survival, sharing songs”.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2016/07/cyro-baptista-nyc-jazz-record.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-5574088089428348350Fri, 29 Jul 2016 20:12:00 +00002016-07-29T13:24:53.925-07:00Opinion: THE VERY REAL CHALLENGE BEFORE US<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9c0AWrWGK74/V5u3mGMCY1I/AAAAAAAABlU/sm-unRcSkCgVq2hNCuntXIqz6VUnaD_CACLcB/s1600/trump%2Bnazi.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9c0AWrWGK74/V5u3mGMCY1I/AAAAAAAABlU/sm-unRcSkCgVq2hNCuntXIqz6VUnaD_CACLcB/s320/trump%2Bnazi.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: &quot;helvetica&quot; , &quot;arial&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: &quot;helvetica&quot; , &quot;arial&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><br /></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">WE ARE NOW FACED WITH A SIMPLE CHOICE. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As a Bernie Sanders supporter who campaigned and stumped for the man during the primary, I find myself taking a strong, sober view of the campaign season. I am more alert than ever of the dangers of demagoguery and the importance of fighting against the Trump vision of our future. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It took a Bernie Sanders--and the millions he activated--to wake Hillary Clinton up and push her out of the usual bland Dem middle of the road. The platform of the Democratic Party is a deeply progressive one. Finally. And perhaps the gains of FDR's New Deal will become central to a candidacy for the first time since Roosevelt. There is a sense that a vote for Hillary will not simply be a lesser of evils. We have yet to see if this will be so, but in the wake of a powerful convention with strong almost continuous progressive messaging, there is great promise. So the battle is officially at the core of our 2-party system. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As a Marxist, as a cultural worker, an outspoken activist, and a member of the labor movement, I can only truly see the need to end the Trump campaign of hate/fear manipulation. Whereas Clinton is drawing on the Dem heritage of FDR and JFK, Trump is thriving on the Republican heritage of racism, xenophobia, homophobia, and arch-Right philosophy. That philosophy was realized during lynchings, Red scares, institutional bias and the so-called Moral Majority and the drive to outlaw abortion. George Wallace, J Edgar Hoover, Joseph McCarthy, Father Coughlin, Sheriff Joe Arpaio, David Duke, Edwin Meese, Strom Thurmond, Roy H Cohn, the segregationists, the fear-mongers, the neo-Nazis, the censors, the greedy, the war profiteers, have been at the heart of the Right-Wing all along, emerging at points of financial and international tumult. And at present, under Trump, we are being fed all of the ingredients of fascism, make no mistake of that. An angry, chest thumping man of great wealth railing on about who our enemies are and how only he can save us. The fomenter of fear and suspicion. The figure of division who claims to unite. The would-be statesman that denounces the nation in order to frighten us into having him "fix" it. The alpha male who stifles and threatens those who dare oppose him, most openly the media. The silver spoon man of wealth who somehow convinces the working class that he is of them. These have all been successful means toward power grabs around the world and most prominently in Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy---and the periods that led up to them. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">No, we cannot take this election lightly. No, we cannot allow this demagogue who would prey on fears for personal gain to have a glimmer of hope here. No, we cannot turn our back on our Left values by letting the childish, ignorant, hateful, manipulative Short Fingered Vulgarian believe he can or should have a position of power on our watch.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Arial Narrow&quot;,sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">-John Pietaro, Aug 29, 2016, Brooklyn NY<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2016/07/opinion-very-real-challenge-before-us.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-5509365311773046925Sun, 05 Jun 2016 15:57:00 +00002016-06-05T09:00:05.001-07:00concert review: ITALIAN SURF ACADEMY, Barbes, Bklyn NY<div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">ITALIAN SURF ACADEMY</span></span></i></b><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Live at Barbes, June 4, 2016</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Concert review by John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t_nHlUrOIyc/V1RLwBO4zoI/AAAAAAAABkw/Wq45lTutddgVM7X2IK247OgXiYyuUNCAgCLcB/s1600/Italian%2BSurf%2BAcad.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t_nHlUrOIyc/V1RLwBO4zoI/AAAAAAAABkw/Wq45lTutddgVM7X2IK247OgXiYyuUNCAgCLcB/s320/Italian%2BSurf%2BAcad.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">The trio that comprises <b>Italian Surf Academy</b>lives in musical sphere without boundaries; spy guitar effortlessly dances to Downtown improv before encompassing spaghetti western and “giallo” horror movie themes. &nbsp;Imagine if you will a music free to revel in a nostalgia that constantly reinvents itself. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Founded by guitarist <b>Marco Cappelli</b> while still living in his native Italy, the band was designed to musically demarcate the post-WW2 Western European vision of American culture. As he stated, “The US represented much more than a geographic place, it was a concept which we dreamed of belonging to”. After some twelve years of residing in this country, Cappelli’s musical mélange may be more parody than adulation (hey, he was present during the W Bush years), but in any event, the spirit of the inspiration burns brilliantly. These days Italian Surf Academy is 2/3 American with the inclusion of much sought-after bassist <b>Damon Banks</b> and young lion drummer <b>Dave Miller</b>, thus realizing the cultural fusion bridging the Atlantic.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Opening its June residency at Park Slope performance space Barbes, the band tore into its unique repertoire for an enthusiastic audience. Immediately, the familiar sparkling, shimmering guitar sound of another era filled the room as Italian Surf Academy kicked off with <i>“Django”</i>. Over the better part of one hour, the band reimagined main title themes from decades-old Italian productions, ranging from the noted to the rather notorious, featuring compositions of Ennio Morricone among others, and threw in Tommy Tedesco guitar licks, moments of bossa novas and escapades of free jazz as needed. But each adaptation was tightly arranged and offered the in-your-face rad bravura New York can claim as original. Bank’s effortless, grooving terra firma made a nice counter-part to Miller’s skittering, broken rhythms over a two-piece drumkit colored by small gongs, few cymbals and a cowbell or two. Both Banks and Miller focused on the leader’s alternately screaming and singing ax, supporting Cappelli within this ongoing, embracing three-way conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Highlights included Carlo Rustichelli’s music from the score of Mario Bava’s <i>“Blood and Black Lace”</i> and the finale “Secret Agent Man” (here an avant expansion of the Ventures’ arrangement), which morphed into John Barry’s James Bond theme before juxtaposing to the Vic Mizzy <i>“Munsters”</i> title music and then back to into black-and-white.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">DON’T LET JUNE GET AWAY WITHOUT STOPPING INTO BARBES ON SATURDAYS AT 6</span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">. Your sense of art and need for fun and reminiscence will fight it out like they’re on opposite sides of the iron curtain---except instead of &nbsp;suspicion and showdown, Italian Surf Academy lets both sides party victoriously. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">This summer it’s time to really come in from the Cold.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><i>{Barbes 376 9th Street, Brooklyn NY}</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">##</span></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2016/06/performance-review-italian-surf-academy.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-1521968576071493522Fri, 27 May 2016 21:49:00 +00002016-05-29T08:45:53.414-07:00Essay: Communist Party Artworks- ELLEN PERLO & the BOLD SHADES OF RED<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;ar essence&quot;; font-size: 24.0pt;">Ellen Perlo and<o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;ar essence&quot;; font-size: 24.0pt;">The Bold Shades of Red <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;ar essence&quot;; font-size: 24.0pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KvN40d_H8Sg/V0jAp9rGb9I/AAAAAAAABkI/VMCHCqeTV2UMEavutWIPkavYF-_jgvqyQCLcB/s1600/Perlos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KvN40d_H8Sg/V0jAp9rGb9I/AAAAAAAABkI/VMCHCqeTV2UMEavutWIPkavYF-_jgvqyQCLcB/s1600/Perlos.jpg" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Ellen and Victor Perlo</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">By John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">It was a noticeably chilly afternoon of September 2009 as I made my way over the winding path that outlines “Red Hill”, the once notorious revolutionary pocket of Croton-on-Hudson NY. I’d contacted Ellen Perlo the week prior to arrange for a visit to her upstate home, the one she’d shared since 1957 with her then recently deceased husband Victor. The couple were long-time members and activists of the Communist Party and it’s safe to say that they stood high among its intellectual base. He was a noted author and economist, she an artist dedicated to the radical cultural movement and for some years the leader of the CP’s Arts Club. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">“Did you see the John Reed House on your way?”, she asked, wearing a beaming smile. “It’s just down the road from here. He and Louise Bryant lived there many years ago but it’s still remembered, especially after ‘Reds’ put us back on the map. We used to get a lot of traffic with visitors seeking it out after Warren Beatty made the film. When was that, ’80? ’81? But long before then, a lot of radical artists and writers were drawn to this area and that lasted decades. They’d started moving in with Reed and then it lasted through the 1940s and after, up and down this so-called ‘Red Hill’”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Ellen Perlo attended New York University’s School of Architecture and Allied Arts, graduating in 1938. When she entered school, Ellen was so focused on her art and studies that she was seen as apolitical, but this changed as the news of the Spanish Civil War broke out. She became active and increasingly radical in her political views, ultimately joining the Communist Party during World War Two. “I joined as everybody was leaving”, she added with a chuckle. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">She and Victor Perlo married in 1943. He was then working for the US Treasury Department, so the pair resided in Washington DC for the duration of the war. “I had joined the Party officially in this period but Vic couldn’t become an actual member while he was working for the government”. However not long after VJ Day, the early frost of the cold war unleashed investigations into many on the federal payroll, decimating reputations and careers. After a few years, Perlo found himself among the victims; it is disputable whether or not he’d held Party membership before this period, but he was a close associate and authored articles and papers for the CP press and functions dating back to 1931. The investigations turned up enough information on Perlo to earn him prime target status. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">“Vic was appointed as the US head of the<i> </i>United Nations relief agency for Europe; we were set to relocate to Paris but the FBI stopped that immediately”, she said, nonplussed after so many years of living with the reality of those times. &nbsp;But the commencement of this red scare came with a certain ferocity: Perlo, after being named in a Congressional hearing as ‘a Soviet spy’, was summarily fired from his government job and blacklisted. This, too, was the reality of this time of reaction, manipulation and division.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">By 1948, the Perlos had left DC and moved to Flushing, Queens NY. Ellen became a staple of the anti-war movement, joining into actions then and in the decades which followed as a member of the Women’s Strike for Peace and WESPAC among other peace and social justice organizations. All during this time she remained an active visual artist and also worked closely with her husband, aiding his research and editing much of the work he was now free to publish under his own name. Ellen also holds co-authorship with Victor in their noted volume, <i>‘Dynamic Stability: The Soviet Economy Today’</i> (1980). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">The couple were active in many aspects of Party academic and cultural work and as such became close friends and collaborators with historic figures, renowned for their work today but under constant fire in their time. These included Paul Robeson, Hugo Gellert, Walter Lowenfels, Rockwell Kent, Pete Seeger and William Gropper. For the uninitiated, it’s now hard to imagine that the American Communist Party maintained a powerful national Cultural Commission starting with the 1920s, lasting well into the HUAC witch hunts. The relevance of the arts is easily explained by the strength of the medium to carry messages, but its roots lie much deeper: two of the four founders of the Communist Party USA were John Reed and Louis Fraina (the latter is today lesser-known than his celebrated comrade, but Fraina was a journalist, editor, political organizer and strategist who later became a respected economist). At its height, the Party maintained a phalanx of leading authors, journalists, playwrights and poets in addition to noted visual artists, actors, directors, a host of modern dancers, designers and musicians, many of them stars of stage, radio, gallery and film. The Party’s cultural work was initially contained within its John Reed Clubs, the network of which had a national reach and sported famous names alongside the up and coming. It began as a Communist writers’ organization but spread widely through other disciplines almost immediately, ushering in many artists of conscience, particularly in the throes of the Great Depression and the rising tide of fascism. This organization was openly revolutionary in both its philosophy and reach and was succeeded in 1935 by the more widespread League of American Writers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">The League was an outgrowth of the vastly influential American Writers Congress which took place in New York City that year. The list of names of eager Congress participants included (listed alphabetically as they were on <i>the Call for an American Writers Congress</i>): Nelson Algren, Kenneth Burke, Erskine Caldwell, Malcolm Cowley, Theodore Dreiser, James T Farrell, Waldo Frank, Joseph Freeman, Michael Gold, Josephine Herbst, Granville Hicks, Langston Hughes, John Howard Lawson, Tillie Lerner (Olsen), Meridel Le Sueur, Joseph North, Samuel Ornitz, Lincoln Steffens, Richard Wright and so many more. It was a treasure trove of the pen, boasting the best within reportage, fiction, screenplay, drama, poetry and combinations thereof. To better illustrate the scope of Party culture and the Congress itself, the following comes from the Congress’ mission statement. This gathering called for literature as a means to ‘<i>fight against imperialist war and fascism; to defend the Soviet Union against capitalist aggression; for the development and strengthening of the revolutionary labor movement; against white chauvinism (against all forms of Negro discrimination and persecution) and against the persecution of minority groups and the foreign born; solidarity with colonial people in their struggles for freedom; against the influence of bourgeois ideas in American liberalism; against the imprisonment of revolutionary writers and artists, as well as other class war prisoners throughout the world</i>’ (<i>“New Masses</i>”, January 22, 1935). <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">The following year, there occurred the American Artists Congress which packed Town Hall during the cold of a New York February. In preparation for their Congress, a group of 110 noted painters and illustrators signed off on a Call which stated in part:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">‘We artists must act. Individually we are powerless. Through collective action we can defend our interests. We must ally ourselves with all groups engaged in the common struggle against war and fascism…</span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">’ The dye was cast. The event drew such a crowd that it was extended into a three-day conference, with closed sessions occurring at the New School for Social Research on the last two days.. Delegations from Mexico, Peru and Germany joined in (Matthew Baigell and Julia Williams, eds., <i>Artists Against War and Fascism: Papers of the First American Artists Congress</i>. Rutgers, 1986. <u>Source</u>: Lampert, Nicholas, <i>A Peoples Art History of the United States</i>, New Press, 2013)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Stuart Davis, by then a noted modernist painter, hosted the proceedings. Other speakers included Rockwell Kent, Max Webber, Margaret Bourke-White, Aaron Douglas, Peter Blume, George Biddle, Heywood Broun, and of course Hugo Gellert who was everywhere to be found in this period. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Though issues of aesthetics remained relevant as always, the aim of the Congress was to radicalize artists in the service of progressive struggle, particularly in the face of the growing fascist threat while the Depression was raging on. Davis’ opening remarks alerted the attendees of the need for a direct response to the social fallout people faced as well as the particular pains of professional artists in the hungry years. It was during this speech that plans for an Artists Union were first presented, as Davis stated, a collective voice for the artists left out of or underserved by the Works Progress Administration’s Arts Program. Max Webber, in a speech to the American Artists Congress body stated: “A truly modern art is yet to come, but not until the new life is here and not before the imminent emancipation of mankind that we can envisage.” (ibid)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">This amazingly fertile ground also begat the Workers Music League, the Workers Theatre, the Workers Film and Photo League, the Red Dancers, Red Stage and aggregations such as the Group Theatre (founded by Harold Clurman, Cheryl Crawford, and Lee Strasburg and featuring Elia Kazan, John Garfield, Will Geer, Stella Adler, Lee J Cobb, many more) and the Composers Collective of New York; within the latter’s ranks were Aaron Copland, Mark Blitzstein, Henry Cowell and Charles Lewis Seeger. Soon, Party cultural leaders VJ Jerome and Michael Gold were dispatched from the home base of Manhattan to the budding film capital of Hollywood, establishing CP clubs within the movie industry and standing with its unions which were embattled by the moguls as well as the gangsters often working on the inside. But even as the Party’s reach extended well into Hollywood, the other arts disciplines were becoming increasingly radicalized.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">THE VISUAL ARTIST’S MEDIUM</span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"> offers an immediate statement, one beyond the need for commentary, and as such, painters, designers, sculptors, cartoonists, sketch artists and other illustrators have been an integral aspect of the global revolutionary movement. The artists associated with Industrial Workers of the World, founded 1901, created a series of posters and placards for organizing campaigns that had the power to move anxious workers and leap over the boundaries of language. And some of their cartoon figures like ‘Mr. Block’ (drawn by Ernest Ried) as well as realist sketches and paintings continue to hold relevance. Often the illustrations were by anonymous artists or those using pseudonyms (such as “Man X”, “Bingo”, “El Picador”) however some of their celebrated songwriters like Joe Hill and Ralph Chaplin also spent a good deal of time as illustrators. Visual art was a vital, universal statement of the struggle. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">The relevance of visual art was even more profound in<i> “The Masses”</i>, a pre-CP organ which launched the careers of many future Party cultural workers. It is best recalled for its stirring illustrations, starkly depicting bloody labor battles, police violence and economic deprivation, but the magazine also championed Greenwich Village bohemianism and the hope of modernism. <i>“The Masses”</i> ran from 1911 through 1917. Many of its artists can be traced to the ‘Ashcan school’ which offered dark visions of inner city life, all too real for some but always imbuing a visceral connection for, if not a vehicle of, pride among the common man and woman. The magazine was a voice for the suffragettes’ movement, bold new philosophies and the oppressed. It championed the Industrial Workers of the World and free speech. Among its standout artists were Stuart Davis, Art Young, John French Sloan, Robert Minor, Alice Beach Winter, Boardman Robinson and George Bellows. <i>“The Masses”</i> staff was so radical that in 1916, the artists went out on strike. The magazine’s greatest fight, however, was with the federal government when its negative coverage the US build-up toward the First World War found its publishers, artists and writers indicted for conspiracy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">The demise of <i>“The Masses”</i> and the American entry into the war symbolized a crushing blow to the Left---just as the reaction against anarchism and socialism which followed culminated in the near destruction of the IWW, furious xenophobia, the founding of the Bureau of Investigation, rabid union busting and a wave of arrests and deportations. Revolutionary writers and artists, however, responded with increased radicalism and in ’22, a new journal. Initially “<i>The Liberator”</i>and then, of much greater importance, <i>“New Masses”</i> went considerably further than the earlier journals dared. Artists William Gropper (also known for his work in <i>“Freiheit”</i>) and Hugo Gellert, soon to become highly celebrated, were on the <i>“New Masses”</i> Executive Board, securing the illustrator’s place in the vision. Gellert also served as an editor, and he would be joined by Robert Minor before long. &nbsp;All three were champion Communist organizers as well as greatly talented creatives; the magazine was born in the main office of the John Reed Clubs. The circle was complete when Sloan, Robinson and Young, artists who’d been central to <i>“The Masses”,</i> joined the staff. Louis Lozowick was also readily hired. Much of the <i>“New Masses”</i> staff would also become central to the CP’s primary organ, <i>“The Daily Worker”, </i>founded in 1924<i>, </i>as well as<i> </i>its West Coast imprint<i> “The People’s World” </i>and the special Sunday editions of either title.<i> </i>But <i>“New Masses”</i>, initially conceived as a purely cultural journal for revolutionaries, maintained the strongest arts content among Communist periodicals, hence, it attracted some brilliant talent. Gellert’s incendiary drawing adorned the first issue’s cover, as it would for many later issues over as many years.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">All this while, other revolutionary artists of many nations were creating works of social commentary and engaging in the struggle toward political and social change. Most were Communists, some were Socialists, but regardless of party affiliation, these intellectuals (using the parlance of the day) were driven by a force greater than mere art for art’s sake. Art was indeed a weapon in the class struggle. Much of the energy in the period of the ‘20s-‘30s originated with the early Soviet organization ProletCult and a number of internationalist artists’ coalitions which were again rooted in the Leninist model. Yet there were, simultaneously, any number of independent artists influenced by this activity. Perhaps the most prominent was Diego Rivera, the great Mexican artist who traveled to the New York in the early 1930s and laid the groundwork for a whole school of thought stemming from traditional Latino cultural expression in response to the toils of factory life. His impact, and that of his wife and partner, the artist Frieda Kahlo, was felt widely and deeply. Rivera’s series “Detroit Industry” and perhaps much more so, his infamous tryptic “Man at the Crossroads”--designed for Rockefeller Center in 1933 but then violently rejected by the wealthy industrialists--remain legendary. The time and place was nothing short of electric.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">A few years after, when Ellen Perlo had joined the ranks of the CPUSA, the tumult was raging in multiple directions. The Spanish Civil War bore a passionate anti-fascism throughout the Left, one which easily symbolized the economic and social displace of oppressed peoples. Thousands were driven to the cause yet this period of activation ran into that of Stalin’s purges, the first clarification of the extent the Soviet leader would go to in order to hold unchallenged power. As broken, sporadic news reports of his despotic rule became increasingly known, many would refute the Communist Party, but the desperation of the time in the face of a harsh US reactionary campaign against the Left, saw a new wave of interest in the American CP. And it was in this period in which the Party arts programs matured and became thoroughly aligned with the unions such as the United Mural Painters (organized by Hugo Gellert) and Screenwriters Guild (re-founded by gifted author and Party organizer John Howard Lawson), and the final period of the Works Progress Administration’s creative arms. During the war years, cultural worker organizations with an accent on visual art such as Artists for the Defense and Artists for Victory held important anti-fascist voices.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Ellen maintained an ongoing relationship with the cultural workers of the Party and in 1948, after the Perlos had moved to Queens, New York, their relationship with many increased further. Victor Perlo was an important advisor to the Henry Wallace presidential campaign that year and as a result, his comradeship with creative artists such as Paul Robeson brought them further into the circle---and, as it turned out, the center of the tumult.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">The infamous Peekskill NY concert by the beloved Robeson, hosted by Howard Fast and also featuring an assortment of other progressive performers (indeed, this was the debut gig of the Weavers) occurred the following summer. The terrible reality of how the event devolved into a brutal riot by right-wing locals supported by area police against the families who attended has long overshadowed the music. Ellen Perlo explained:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">“Vic and I flipped a coin to see which of us would have to stay home with the kids. I won. So I traveled up to Peekskill with friends. We got up to the site and joined in on a lovely picnic. Pete (Seeger) sang and led everyone in a singalong. It was a beautiful day with many children in attendance. The concert itself was wonderful”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Photographs from this event show Robeson in performance on the makeshift stage surrounded by a phalanx of unionists acting as guards. The threats against Robeson by the forces of reaction had been well-established and an earlier planned concert in Peekskill had to be cancelled, thus on this occasion, the Party and its allies in attendance sought to take no chances. However, the event took an ominous turn at the conclusion. Ellen Perlo explained: “On the way out, as we walked to our cars, we saw a wall of cops and then we were encountered by these men – they were yelling out such filth to us. We all got into our cars and the drivers were directed by the police to one small road”. The dozens and dozens of cars were instructed to exit by way of a single-lane wooded path flanked by thickets of trees. The car Ellen was in was about mid-way through the long, slow-moving caravan when it came under assault: “These men began pounding the car with rocks. The windshield was immediately smashed! I was furious. Someone said, “Lie down, Ellen” but I was too angry, I shouted back at them. Later I had to comb shards of glass out of my hair. This was fascism—like what we are starting to see again today”, Perlo stated.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Resistance to the rising tide of fascism had led her into the Party’s ranks and then kept her deeply active within it. Post-World War Two, the Perlos had to contend with a uniquely American kind of rightist oppression: McCarthyism, the Red Scare and the House Committee on Un-American Activities. &nbsp;In this period, the right-wing coalition of government and industry posed enough of a threat that many Communists either left the Party or went underground. In addition to the public hearings of the Hollywood Ten, many other progressive artists and other activists were hounded, blacklisted and subject to arrest if their testimony wasn’t very carefully navigated. Leaders of the Communist Party, too, were flagrantly harassed and then charged under the Smith Act with ‘the attempt to violently overthrow the US government’. These were, indeed, dark days.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">By the earliest 1960s, as the Civil Rights struggle was coming to its initial boiling point, the left parties became driven by this pressing issue. Many Communists who’d been demoralized by the arch-right a decade before, took an open stand in this fight for equality. The Perlos were prominent among them. And Ellen also became a mover and shaker in both the Party’s Arts Club and within the staff of <i>“World Magazine”</i>, the Sunday insert to the CP newspaper--initially known as <i>“The Daily Worker”</i> by this time the paper had become <i>“The Daily World”</i>. Perlo recalls Joseph North, one of the deans of the Party’s cultural work for decades, still on staff as an editor. “We also had Seymour Joseph, Margaret Pittman and Marla Hoffman among others. The staff did everything: write, lay-out, proof-read”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">In addition to regular meetings which involved discussions on socio-political matters and the arts, the Arts Club was called on to create placards for demonstrations. “When the Party needed anything to do with art, they called us. Often we included the credit “Arts Club” under the slogan or imagery we created”, she explained. “There were so many people involved in the cause, not all of them were members of the CP but sometimes came to Club meetings and engaged in some of our projects”. When asked about this treasure trove of creative activists, Ellen’s eyes lit up. “Well, William Gropper lived right in Croton, but he wasn’t a member of the Club. We all knew and admired him, but he drifted in and out. Bob Minor’s widow Lydia also lived here; we were very close. Seymour Joseph the cartoonist of <i>“The Daily World”</i>: he was a lovely guy with a great sense of humor. Bill Andrews and Charles Keller were also gifted cartoonists who worked on the paper. One day in the early ‘70s Bill left, went home to Arizona and never said ‘goodbye’”, she recalled sadly. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">And what of the celebrated Rockwell Kent and Hugo Gellert? “Rockwell, around 1960 when the worst of the McCarthy business was over, had his passport returned to him. We’d become friends in the mid-50s or so. Vic and I called on Rockwell and his wife Sally to congratulate him and our family spent a lot of time together at their place in the Adirondacks during summers. I have some of his artwork here”, she said, pointing to a moving framed sketch. He was not a Communist Party member but he was an outspoken social justice activist. And Gellert was a lovely fellow, a small man whose bright white hair I can still see. He was a member of the Party, of course, and the Club”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">&nbsp;“Another member was Ollie Harrington who used to work on the paper before my time. He migrated to East Germany but air-mailed his cartoons in twice per week. He had an intense, dark look about him and his artwork was always full, finished in appearance, never sketchy. And Harry Gottlieb was a charming guy who was an overt Party member. He did beautiful silk screens. And of course we had Bob Ekins, a fabulous sculptor from Connecticut. He was very political and became one of the original Smith Act victims. One of his best known pieces depicted a little girl in the segregated south”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">The Arts Club also held an Artists’ Workshop in which outside artists were invited in to silkscreen. A wide reach of visual arts were presented to inspire creativity, particularly in the service of social change. But not everyone associated with the club was a visual artist. Perlo explained: “Walter Lowenfels, the great poet, was a close friend of ours”. She smiled while recalling him.&nbsp; “He always wore a beret and was always full of life. But more than anything, he was ALWAYS writing poetry no matter where he was”. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">The Communist Party Arts Club met weekly during the 1960s and ‘70s, offering educational and experiential activities as well as powerful discussion. Ultimately, with members moving away from the area, it morphed into a more general Party club. In recent times, it has dwindled. Victor Perlo continued to be a highly visible Communist economist and wrote a regular column for the paper that became “<i>The Peoples Weekly World”</i> (these days it’s online as “<i>The People’s World”</i> – www.peoplesworld.org) for the rest of his days. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">Though Red Hill ceased to be a revolutionary stronghold, residents like Ellen Perlo kept the faith and remained active. She became a member, too, of Artists for Nuclear Disarmament and participated in the mass demonstrations of the 1980s and beyond. The Perlos spoke out against the Reagan and Bush administrations, war and inequity, and fought for workers’ rights through actions, art and the books they often wrote or edited together.&nbsp; And their collection of literature and artwork served for decades as a veritable museum of the intellectual Left. “After Vic passed away, I gave quite a lot of our collection to the Party and they in turn had these items transferred to a CP archive at Frostburg State University (</span><a href="http://www.frostburg.edu/lewis-ort-library/aboutlib/depts/arch/perlo/"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">http://www.frostburg.edu/lewis-ort-library/aboutlib/depts/arch/perlo/</span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">).</span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"> But I still enjoy surrounding myself with the special memories and the paintings, sketches, books, photographs and journals which hold them. We came through a lot”, she explained. “And these things are a little bit of history”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;"><br /></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif;">As this article goes to press in 2016, seven years following my visit with Ellen Perlo up on Red Hill, it coincides with her one-hundredth birthday. Less active perhaps, but still immersed in her core beliefs in real social change through socialism, she extends her reach through the little bits of history she affected and may inspire for decades to come.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2016/05/essay-ellen-perlo-and-bold-shades-of-red.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-4282023628887064745Sat, 14 May 2016 02:49:00 +00002016-05-13T20:18:57.677-07:00Concert Review: CARLA BLEY/STEVE SWALLOW/ANDY SHEPPARD<h2 style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">CARLA BLEY AT 80</span></span></i></b><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">:</span></span><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">&nbsp;</span></b></h2><h3 style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Bley/Swallow/Sheppard in Concert, May 11, 2016, Steinway Hall, NYC</span></b></h3><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif;">Concert review by John Pietaro</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s-3H6qG5_wg/VzaQ7VQVkLI/AAAAAAAABjw/XoAInDF-QDQsjT_rX9LQ3cInyJXszuB9ACLcB/s1600/carlabley2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s-3H6qG5_wg/VzaQ7VQVkLI/AAAAAAAABjw/XoAInDF-QDQsjT_rX9LQ3cInyJXszuB9ACLcB/s320/carlabley2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><h4 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , &quot;helvetica&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><u>photo</u>; wuot.org/post/carla-bley-hits-milestone-style#stream/0</span></span></h4><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The invite-only crowd lined up in the midtown flagship of the Steinway Piano company, the walls flanked by museum-quality instruments of deep black and stark white. The formality of the main room carried through into the new Steinway hall, a small auditorium with exquisite sound quality, but once the musicians were on stage, the polite quietude transformed into the hiply pensive. The occasion was the 80</span><sup style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 107%;">th</sup><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> birthday of renowned pianist and composer Carla Bley; the date served as both a concert by her trio with Andy Sheppard and Steve Swallow, and as a celebration of their new release on ECM, “Andando el Tiempo”.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Bley’s chamber trio kicked off the evening with the world premiere of “Copy Cat”, a lengthy, meditative piece that acted as something of a coda to the new album (see this writer’s review of “Andando el Tiempo” in the June issue of <i>The New York City Jazz Record</i>). According to Bley, the piano manuscript alone is 90-some pages long. While “Copy Cat” is driven by space, it maintains an underlying rhythmicity within Swallow’s 5-string electric bass drive and the pianist’s own terra firma. Andy Sheppard, in his high-voiced tenor saxophone, is often a perfect front to the Bley compositions, with use of circular breathing and extended techniques in addition to a singing, mournful tone. Though this music is complex enough that all members of the trio are, in essence, playing lead, the horn stands in its traditional role out front, and Sheppard’s voice on the instrument may be as unique as the composer herself. As the saxophonist engaged in featured forays, Bley often watched intently, seemingly as adamant about accompaniment as she was about her place as leader and the creator of the piece. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But this concert was not specific to Carla Bley, composer, for there was nearly as much piano art on display on stage as there was lining the venue. As she stated during the later Q and A segment, “I finally learned to really play the piano a few years ago”, indicating her earlier reliance on the organ or simply conducting in larger ensembles. She seems to have become one with the instrument: during more intense moments, she embraces it bodily, leaning over with head bowed almost to the point of her face touching the keys. The spiritual nature of such a posture, wrapping herself in the sound source, seemed all too appropriate to the moment. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The lack of a drummer in this chamber-oriented trio allowed for the full breadth of piano, saxophone and bass. Steve Swallow tended to hold the grooves together but surely, the three maintained great command of pulse, propulsion and vibe. There was also something of a nostalgic moment in the bossa nova which the second selection was built on; Swallow’s years with Stan Getz were reflected as he danced nimbly across his fingerboard and Sheppard’s tenor melody offered more than a hint of the Getz alto tone. With Bley loosely dropping rhythmic chords over and about the others, one could imagine her in the Gary Burton role of that early ‘60s Getz bossa-drenched quartet. In this regard, the evening was a nod to the era in which these fine veterans of the music first came of age. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At 80 years old, Carla Bley has given the listening public decades worth of gifts. She has developed new philosophies of the music, made any number of large experimental ensembles swing, co-founded the Liberation Music Orchestra, begat the Jazz Composers Orchestra Association, dabbled in punk-rock and straightahead jazz and shapeshifted at will. Most recently, Bley, in a small, somewhat fragile looking frame and brief halo of silver-gray, has taught us to breathe in the spare tonal music she is focused on at the moment. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot; , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Even at <i>largo</i>, she hasn’t slowed down a bit.&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2016/05/concert-review-carla-bleysteve.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8747521146795539225.post-3566315375482236416Sun, 20 Mar 2016 23:34:00 +00002016-05-29T09:35:39.626-07:00"RETORT" Magazine and WOODSTOCK NY<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;ar essence&quot;; font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 107%;">RELECTIONS ON <i>“RETORT” </i>AND WOODSTOCK NY<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;monotype corsiva&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">John Pietaro<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;monotype corsiva&quot;; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U8hSvW7jtE0/Vu8zH-pxpvI/AAAAAAAABh8/22F_F8VKPNoDI8r-pZJe8RuNHvQ5tVRLw/s1600/Maverick%2B1929%2B%2BNoguchi%2Band%2BGrace%2BGreenwood%2B%25C2%25A9TheGaede_StriebelArchive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U8hSvW7jtE0/Vu8zH-pxpvI/AAAAAAAABh8/22F_F8VKPNoDI8r-pZJe8RuNHvQ5tVRLw/s320/Maverick%2B1929%2B%2BNoguchi%2Band%2BGrace%2BGreenwood%2B%25C2%25A9TheGaede_StriebelArchive.jpg" width="242" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #666666; color: white;"><span style="font-family: &quot;libre baskerville&quot;; font-size: 12px; line-height: 20.16px;">"He painted eyes on me and I painted lips on him,"&nbsp;</span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grace_Greenwood_Ames" style="display: inline; font-family: 'libre baskerville'; font-size: 12px; line-height: 20.16px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="color: white;">Grace Greenwood</span></a><span style="font-family: &quot;libre baskerville&quot;; font-size: 12px; line-height: 20.16px;">&nbsp;said of&nbsp;</span><a href="http://www.noguchi.org/noguchi" style="display: inline; font-family: 'libre baskerville'; font-size: 12px; line-height: 20.16px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="color: white;">Noguchi</span></a><span style="font-family: &quot;libre baskerville&quot;; font-size: 12px; line-height: 20.16px;">. &nbsp;1929 Maverick Festival. &nbsp; Photo: Coursens Studio. (</span><span style="color: #404040; font-family: &quot;libre baskerville&quot;;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 20.16px;">http://www.upstatediary.com/maverick/)</span></span></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">During one of our pilgrimages to the hallowed land of Woodstock NY, my wife Laurie and I were perusing the Readers’ Quarry, a local used bookstore, where I was seeking out old left-wing journals. It’s my only vice.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As I thumbed through a vintage&nbsp;<i>“Partisan Review”</i>, the proprietor alerted me to a couple of issues of&nbsp;<i>“Retort”</i>&nbsp;that had just come in. Certain I must be aware of the magazine—as well as its history in Woodstock--she beamed while carefully taking them out of the glass case up front. “Wow”, I said wearing an embarrassed half-smile.&nbsp;<i>“Retort”</i>? No, I’m not familiar with it”. As she handed me the two beautifully preserved issues, both from 1947, I realized that her cocked eyebrow was not undeserved.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Retort”</span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">&nbsp;was an anarchist journal of politics and the arts, with an accent on the latter. The magazine was founded by writer, anarchist, anti-war activist and traditional jazz enthusiast Holley Cantine, a Woodstock native. In his time as a writer, he’d completed at least two plays, several books and countless essays. The Anarchist Library website stated in a 2010 article ‘The Life of Holley Cantine’:&nbsp;...every May Day Holley insisted on attending the annual celebration of this neglected holiday. The event he went to was organized by the Libertarian Book Club in New York City. At the event Cantine busted out his trombone and serenaded other attendees with solo renditions of favorites like “The Internationale” and “Solidarity Forever”. He also played in a band called The Woodchuck Hollow Brass and Woodwind Choir. As strange as it might sound, this group was quite particular in what it chose to rehearse and perform: German hunting calls and American patriotic music. That was their specialty.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Holley Cantine was soon joined by the radical poet Dachine Rainer and they resided and worked in a Cantine’s hand-built cabin in Bearsville, a hamlet within the Town of Woodstock, just up the road from Woodstock Village. The pair were married and raised a daughter along with some profound literature. Cantine was drawn back to the area, and Rainer to it, in the wake of a great artistic migration there which had actually begun at the dawn of the 20<sup>th</sup>&nbsp;century with the arts and crafts movement but rapidly grew into a call for the moderns by the ‘20s and ‘30s. But the migration to Woodstock really never ceased. Many of the most important US artists over the past century spent at least a period of time in the village or its surrounding hills, not the least of which was Hart Crane, Helen Hayes, John Dos Passos, Edna St. Vincent Millay, John Cage, Rockwell Kent, Charles Mingus, George Bellows, Henry Cowell, Jimi Hendrix, Doris Lee, Ed Sanders (ex of the Fugs) among so many more. This most famous little village can also boast the Byrdcliffe Guild, its theatre and studios (1903—and still an institution), the Arts Students League (1906), the Maverick Artists’ Colony and concert hall (1915; the summer concert series is ongoing), Woodstock Playhouse (1937 till the present) and other organizations which helped to alter the course of creativity from this little corner upstate.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Woodstock’s first few decades as&nbsp;<i>the</i>&nbsp;colony of the arts provided common ground for both folk art and the shock of the new. Represented were the visual arts genres deemed Hudson River, Ashcan, Expressionist, Cubist and beyond. The area also offered advances in literature and poetry, a wealth of music ranging from folk songs through orchestral works, as well as a variety of theatre, ballet and modern dance. As early as 1915, the first “Woodstock Festival” occurred—it was a fundraiser for the site of the Maverick, founded by renegade poet and naturalist Hervey White who’d helped create Bydrcliffe but then rebelled against its orderliness. His annual fests were veritable celebrations fusing amphitheater performance to costumed pageantry, carnivals, feasts and presumably reckless abandon. White was fond of staging art exhibits in the natural splendor, within the forest which framed his colony, living, in every sense of the word, off of the land.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The roots of the hippie movement can be traced to places like Woodstock with its history of communes and so youth culture found some creative allies up there. Perhaps the prime mover for Woodstock as a hook for radical artists of the early ‘60s was Bob Dylan. For a couple of summers he’d lived in a room above the Café Espresso; legend has it that “Subterranean Homesick Blues” was composed in those quarters. That club was the hub of folk music in Woodstock and in addition to Dylan, the likes of Joan Baez, Ramblin’ Jack Elliot and Richard and Mimi Farina appeared there frequently. Café Espresso didn’t last long enough to see the scene mature, but other venues such as the Elephant, Sled Hill Café and Rose’s Cantina featured singer-songwriters through the later ‘60s and attracted a veritable all-star group of visiting performers including Phil Ochs, Tom Paxton, Jim Kweskin, Peter Yarrow, Ian and Sylvia, Richie Havens, Maria Muldaur, Tim Hardin and Theodore Bikel.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By ‘67, a series of experiential happenings known as the Sound-Outs brought the avant garde into rock-n-roll, the drug culture and the open air. These festivals, really an outgrowth of Hervey White’s that engaged a new generation of experimentalists, were ultimately inspired by the irresistible vibes of this place. Bob Fass of WBAI-FM served as host of the Sound-Outs and his legendary radio show always had access to cutting-edge performers, especially those of the counter culture. He offers a full explanation in the book&nbsp;<i>The Roots of Woodstock</i>, but in short order, stated: “The festivals were open-air affairs&nbsp;held on Pan Copeland’s farm in West Saugerties, NY.&nbsp;Some of the acts associated with the Sound-Outs include Ellen McIlwaine’s Fear Itself, the Colwell-Winfield Blues Band, Tim Hardin, Don McLean, Scott Fagan, Frank Wakefield, and Cat Mother and the All Night Newsboys”&nbsp;He added that macro-biotic food was available, clarifying that sharing and embracing the land was all a part of the experience. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">&nbsp;“<i>Hudson Valley”</i>&nbsp;magazine also weighed in on the topic: “The Sound Outs were a series of impromptu concerts held on a farm between Saugerties and Woodstock. The first one, on Labor Day weekend 1967, included performers Richie Havens, Tim Hardin, Junior Wells, Billy Batson, and Major Wiley”.&nbsp;Also in town at the time were the Blues Magoos, Artie and Happy Traum, the Children of God and many more singer-songwriters and bands. It was a busy scene—and all of this predating the big festival so named for this place!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Dylan purchased a large house up in Byrdcliffe, overlooking Woodstock village, and the Band had taken up in “Big Pink” a couple of miles over in West Saugerties. Dylan’s infamous motorcycle accident occurred in the winding dirt roads of Ohayo Mountain. Bearsville has its own special history: some 20 years after Cantine and Rainer moved in, it became the home of the noted folk music manager Albert Grossman (agent for the majority of young folkies including Dylan) and there he put up a number of his representees such as the Band before moving Paul Butterfield and his crew in. As of the middle 1960s and for nearly a decade beyond, a goldmine of musicians from the folk, rock, jazz and pop genres could be found living, visiting or just gigging in and lose by this magical village.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And of course all of this action and the increasing popularity of the Sound-Outs had Woodstock plotted out as the original site for the legendary ‘3 Days of Peace and Music’ which, due to its magnitude, was ultimately moved to the farmland of Max Yasgur some miles and a county over. But not holding “Woodstock” at Woodstock didn’t slow the creative input into the village. A wealth of jazz musicians set up home there in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s including Karl Berger and Ingrid Sertso whom, in the company of Ornette Coleman, founded the Creative Music Studio which spawned countless careers in this daring genre of post-modern jazz, free improv, world music and new composition. By the 1970s, the great jazz drummer Jack DeJohnette and bassist Dave Holland, both Miles Davis alumni, had taken up residence in Woodstock—and stayed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The folkies, rockers, blues singers, hippies and runaways kept arriving too, often fruitlessly seeking some remnant of the big festival, but then staying on and adding to the magic in some way. A few of the wonderful characters remain in town including the beloved Richochet and the quite mythic Grandpa Woodstock, previously seen in the company of his lady Esther, Village Green perennials. The area’s reputation for genteel tolerance was disaffected when the Tinker Street home Grandpa and Esther have shared since the 1990s was raided by Ulster County narcs a couple of years ago; the terms of his probation forced him to move out so he spends summers under the Woodstock skies and winters in warmer climates. For all of its deeper meaning and empowering visions, the drug culture of the original hippie period also arrived with some very damaging aspects including diminishing health, impoverishment, homelessness and a few mind-blowing trips of no return. And at times, reliance on such substances has little to do with culture and was bound in visceral wounds and an unshakable loneliness. This stark reality led to the formation of the social service agency Family of Woodstock. Family’s office is still there on Rock City Road and it has branched out into other areas of the mid-Hudson Valley, offering counseling and assistance to many broken, addicted and disaffected individuals. True to form, its mission is one of acceptance but also striving toward health and accomplishment.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In the later ‘70s Todd Rundgren built his Utopia Studio just behind Albert Grossman’s compound. In those years, performances proliferated in venues such as the legendary Joyous Lake and Levon Helm’s place (the site of his later Midnight Rambles) as well as the Colony Café among others. The rockers, jazz artists, blues singers, folkies and bluegrass musicians were joined by an influx of reggae bands. But not all of the nightlife was led by artists seeking higher truths---dance clubs that featured disco and flowing cocaine brought in a gold rush of big&nbsp;money and bigger spending. But the boom, like all such fast grabs for profit, wouldn’t last. As is well-known among Woodstock lore, Rundgren experienced a harrowing break-in late one night in 1980 as he was mixing tracks. He found himself at gun-point and was tied up by the thieves and burglarized of much expensive equipment. He packed up what remained and left town rapidly. Some say he took the music with him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At this point it would be impossible to separate Woodstock from the arts but this little village and town is also the home of considerable revolutionary philosophy and historic uprisings too. &nbsp;Over many generations, struggles for peace, equality and environmentalism, among other issues dear to the left have been central. These probably date back prior to the Down Rent Wars of 1845, rebellions of farmers in opposition to vampiric tax increases—but the Woodstock Women in Black have held their weekly silent vigils each Saturday since George W Bush’s first saber-rattling, and have no reason to stop any time soon. The area’s been a draw for free thinkers, socialists, communists, pacifists, and anarchists of every stripe. Naturally, the creative community have almost always been deeply enmeshed with those residents of radical politics and this can be traced at least to Ralph Whitehead’s arrival as he began to build the Byrdcliffe colony at the dawn of the 20<sup>th</sup>&nbsp;century. He’d based his vision of a shared space on his own socialist philosophy and this inherent leftism has been an active part of much of the Woodstock experience, particularly among artists.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Today there are fewer performance venues but those present are beloved and many quality series have seen the light, so to speak. The recent closure of the Colony Café (hopefully a temporary closure) allows for further focus on the running series of performances at the Wok-n-Roll restaurant. Utopia Studio was transformed into the Bearsville Theatre around 2008, a premier concert venue. Another building of the Grossman compound has for decades been occupied by the local independent radio station, WDST-FM Radio Woodstock. The station has won major accolades for its programming and also its sense of community and embrace of the area’s progressive values.&nbsp; There are special annual events like the Woodstock Film Festival, Reggae Festival, Guitar Festival and Goddess Festival. The Woodstock Writers organization also hosts events, primarily a celebrated Woodstock Writers Festival too. &nbsp;This writer will modestly add that he was also the organizer and producer of a number of events on various Woodstock stages in the 2005-10 period, including the Woodstock Woody Guthrie Festival and the Woodstock Phil Fest, the latter in tribute to Phil Ochs. And the very town square, the Village Green, is the site of several concerts each year and weekly drum circles. There are several excellent art galleries, a museum run by the Byrdcliffe Guild/Woodstock Artists Association that also holds concerts and a quite renowned Center for Photography (built on the site of what was Café Espresso) as well as the wonderful Woodstock Music Shop, record stores, great bookstores including the Golden Notebook (and the recently lost Readers’ Quarry, where this essay actually began), rock-n-roll nostalgia shops, a variety of inns and eateries, a historic community center—the site of an annual Dr. King honor and the area’s public access studio--and an awe-inspiring artists’ cemetery. This most famous little village’s sounds, sites, readings, and productions, along with its progressive politicos and radical activists, continues to thrive.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But back to&nbsp;<i>“Retort”</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">According to Alf Evars, Woodstock’s official historian, the first issue was released in June, 1942 at the behest of Holley Cantine. At that point its message sat on the fence of a pacifist ideal, angling its ire toward government of any kind let alone involvement in any war (even the “good” one). Five years later, with the inclusion of the noted Dachine Rainer, the journal had claimed its “Anarchist Quarterly” subtitle. And with the rightward turn of the nation, Woodstockers found reasonable wisdom in its pages. Rainer was a close associate of e.e. cummings, W.H. Auden and many other celebrated modernist poets—including Ezra Pound during his darkest days (though her politics sharply differed from his). Born in Manhattan, 1921, but a world traveler, she was reared toward radical thought as a child, acutely aware of the Sacco and Vanzetti case as it happened in real time. By 1944, she would become a published author with a piece in the magazine&nbsp;<i>“Politics”</i>, edited by Dwight McDonald who’d already been acknowledged as a journalist and editor of note within left circles. In tandem with Cantine, she would found and edit radical literary magazines&nbsp;<i>“The Wasp”&nbsp;</i>and&nbsp;<i>“Prison Etiquette”</i>&nbsp;in addition to&nbsp;<i>“Retort”</i>. Rainer maintained a life of outspoken activism and also wrote novels and collections of poetry of considerable note. She outlived Cantine by some years and spent later decades traveling from New York to Europe, walking always within the ranks of the leading writers of her time. Rainer ultimately settled in London where she’d remain until her 2000 passing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">While Rainer’s legacy is not bound to&nbsp;<i>“Retort”</i>, it remains a considerable facet among the accomplishments of both she and Cantine. The Anarchist Library website, in writing on&nbsp;<i>“Retort”</i>, went so far as to state that it’s, “a superb example of what an independent and radical publication could be. Mixing book reviews with long essays and thoughtful editorials, poetry and personal experiences, Retort is still a great read”.&nbsp;Here-here.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So this brings me back to this particular Woodstock visit and the two issues of focus here…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><u><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Retort”</span></u></i><u><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">&nbsp;Vol 3, Number 4, Spring 1947</span></u><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">&nbsp;– The cover of each issue of&nbsp;<i>“Retort”</i>&nbsp;displays, in a professional journal manner, highlights of what’s to come within. This particular number boasts a gun-metal gray&nbsp; cover featuring “The New Russian Resistance” by Canine and Rainer as well as “Anti-Bolshevist Communism in Germany” (by Paul Mattick) and “Art in the Desert” (George Woodcock) as well as some other pieces. The inside cover includes ads for back issues of this title (“50 cents per copy”) as well as two others:&nbsp;<i>“Now”</i>, a British anarchist journal edited by Woodcock with George Orwell among the contributing writers, and a downtown New York mag called&nbsp;<i>“Resistance!”</i>&nbsp;(“formerly&nbsp;<i>“Why?”</i>).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The title page of this issue of&nbsp;<i>“Retort”</i>&nbsp;offers credits for the joint editors and the statement,&nbsp;“RETORT is hand-set and hand-printed by the editors”.&nbsp;The small print at the bottom lists the address as simply Bearsville NY and clarifies that single copies sold for 40 cents, subscriptions $1.50 per year for four issues. Interestingly, it clarifies that&nbsp;<i>“Retort”</i>&nbsp;does not pay for contributed articles. Of course this was a highly grass-roots effort but it’s odd that writers on the left would decide up front that they wouldn’t pay creatives, even as writers and others in the arts had been struggling for recognition as cultural workers for decades.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The opening piece is the editorial which kicks off a series entitled “Anti-Third World War”; this installment is dedicated to the anti-Stalinist movement in left circles which had been present throughout the post-Lenin years but made a resurgence in the aftermath of WW2. There is also a follow-up to this piece, furthering the anti-Stalin argument and a last editorial which focuses on May Day 1947 (in New York, not Red Square), speaking to the bureaucracy within the Communist and Socialist parties as well as smaller splinter organizations amidst the marches and other celebratory gatherings. The authors mock the big midtown parade and rally, though it was 50,000 strong, for the presence of American flags, Sousa march music and&nbsp;“the slogans, now taken out of packing boxes, much like last year’s Christmas decorations”. The author went on to add that the meeting held by the SP was akin to a wake, but also stated that,&nbsp;“it was impossible to attend all of the gatherings since each little party and sect had its own ceremony”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It is ironic that Cantine, a true supporter of May Day traditions and most certainly the author of this critique, would denounce the legitimacy of the mass NYC parade and cite the use of brass bands and Sousa marches considering his own musical involvement in the events where he was among the performers. But his pointed criticisms raise even further questions. In the time of this writing, 2016, radicals continue to long for a period when left organizations and labor marched together in mass marches and rallies of these huge proportions, and there was still energy for numerous other, more revolutionary May Day events. Perhaps this editorial’s most vexing feature is the continued fracturing of the US left in the face of the growing right-wing threat in Washington. During the summer prior to this piece’s publication, “<i>The Hollywood Reporter”</i>&nbsp;outed prominent screenwriters and directors as communists and the barrage continued into October of ’47 when the first HUAC hearings would damn the Hollywood 10 as traitors. Hindsight may be 20/20 but we now recognize how the left’s divide only led to the rise of the right.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This issue of&nbsp;<i>“Retort”</i>&nbsp;continues on with “Anti-Bolshevist Communism in Germany” before moving into some articles on the arts. Guest writer George Woodcock offers “Arts in the Desert”, a piece, curiously enough, about the state of culture in his native UK. He cites some musical advances due to the availability of record players and names a few modern composers (Tippet, Brittan) but maintains that the excitement remains on the old classical and baroque masters. He briefly reviews ballet (nothing on modern dance), and somehow uses the moment to make some disturbing anti-gay slurs. How wrong it seems for a progressive essayist and historian to refer to male dancers as&nbsp;“queens”&nbsp;and then go on to explain that while he is not a&nbsp;“queer baiter”, he feels that the lack of acceptance of gay lifestyles has created in this community&nbsp;“an exaggerated reaction”&nbsp;which gives ballet&nbsp;“an unhealthy nature”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Woodcock goes on in his overview of the British arts scene by stating that&nbsp;“the theatre proper is at a standstill”&nbsp;and writes similarly of English film. While the true ‘kitchen sink’ British realism was a few years away, its roots could be found in other realist movements which were very strong in Europe in the post-War years, including “It Always Rains On Sunday”, a Brit production of 1947. The reviewer seems fully unaware of this.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Woodcock remains as passionless about the state of literature, giving a bit of a nod to poets including Dylan Thomas, but, he states, he is hopeful that young writers&nbsp;“may produce something better than the ‘Marxist’ writing of a previous generation”. The outlook, he offers is not very bright.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The magazine next gives us free-verse poetry by Dachine Rainer, a piece for Rilke, and then moves into a letters-to-the-editor section, ‘Retorting’. The first letter is by the noted Dwight Macdonald who soundly criticizes the editors for their negative review of Orwell in an earlier issue, referring to it as&nbsp;“unjustified abuse”. Dachine Rainer snaps back with a defensive er, uh, retort which reminds Macdonald that he’d apparently printed some anti-Orwell sentiment in his&nbsp;<i>“Partisan Review”</i>&nbsp;not long before!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The magazine next features a detailed look at a magazine under the editorial watch of Macdonald,&nbsp;<i>“Politics”</i>. The reviewer was careful to remind readers that Macdonald had begun his literary career as a Marxist before moving wholehearted into the Trotskyist movement and that over the course of several issues, the political and philosophical viewpoint wavered in a questionable manner.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Before closing,&nbsp;<i>“Retort”</i>&nbsp;Vol 3 No 4 gives brief reviews of new recordings which, happily range from modern (Copland, Dvorak, Prokofiev, Stravinsky) to classical orchestral and chamber works to folk songs. As to the latter, John Jacob Niles, the most celebrated of the concert folksingers of the day, is hit hard by the reviewer when&nbsp;“he melodramatically hams and sobs”&nbsp;his way through a collection called ‘Early American Carols’.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Special mention must be made of the inside back cover of this issue, which includes an ad for a Motive Book Shop in Waco Texas, where Henry Miller’s ‘Murder the Murderer’ was available for $1.25 and a free copy of ‘The Southern Temper’ by Judson Crews was included too. Just beneath this was an advertisement for a Four Seasons Book Shop then located in Greenwich Village; its spring catalog included Kafka, Cocteau, DH Lawrence, and more, as well as EM Forster’s ‘Aspects of the Novel’.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So what of my other find,&nbsp;<i><u>“Retort”</u></i><u>&nbsp;Vol 4 No 1 of Autumn 1947</u>?&nbsp;First, off, this issue’s cover is in a dark blood red, quite striking. The featured articles include “The New Russian Resistance”, another classic anti-Stalinist article by the editorial couple, and two arts pieces as well as reviews and poetry.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A short, stunning Yeats poem, “Great Day” fills the space at the end of the lead article and offers a rather Orwellian look at the after-effects of revolution. It is followed by a Cantine essay, “Art: Play and Its Perversions” which analyzes the plight of the artist in capitalist society rather eloquently. A proper poetry section fills the center of the volume, with works by British poets George Sims and Alex Comfort, followed by a Rainer piece and then selections by Pearl Bond, Jackson Mac Low and Martin Dworkin, none of whom were familiar to me upon first reading. The issue then moves to a hefty article on Bakunin by Michael Grieg and then a series of book and brief record reviews. Just before the end of this issue, the inside back cover sports a pair of ads of note: the first is an appeal by the editors for readers to send a parcel of food or clothing to poor families in Germany—and for those unable to afford both this mailing and a renewal of a subscription,&nbsp;<i>“Retort”</i>&nbsp;offers a free renewal to those who give to this cause. And it’s followed by the announcement of a “new theoretical magazine devoted to the international movement of democratic socialism—<i>Modern Review</i>”.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As I closed the crimson cover and plotted out a space for these two historic volumes on my shelf of revolutionary literature, I thought back to the time and place in which these two magazines were written and distributed from. Cantine and Rainer should be recalled as authentic members of Woodstock’s radical arts history. But they also should be viewed as independent anarchist cultural voices in the frenetic period that bridged the push leftward and the abject reaction to it. Even as a vicious, single-minded mission to silence radicals boiled over in film studios, government offices and corporate palaces,&nbsp;<i>“Retort”</i>&nbsp;offered its own brand of fight-back from a Bearsville cabin, largely untouched by the tumult that would last for decades.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">&nbsp;<b>&nbsp;</b><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><u><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">References:</span></u><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Retort</span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">, Spring 1947, Vol 3, Number 3. Bearsville NY<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Retort</span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">, Autumn 1947, Vol 4, Number 1. Bearsville NY<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">http://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/holley-cantine-double-double-toil-and-trouble#toc2<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Evars, Alf.&nbsp;<i>Woodstock: History of An American Town</i>, NY: 1987<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It Happened in Woodstock</span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">, NY: 1972<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Smart, P and Moynihan, TP. <i>Woodstock and Rock</i>, NY Purple Mountain Press, 1994<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">http://rootsofwoodstock.com/2009/06/22/bob-fass-on-the-woodstock-sound-outs<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">http://www.hvmag.com/Hudson-Valley-Magazine/August-2009/By-the-Time-We-Got-to-Woodstock<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">http://www.woodstockwriters.com<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">http://www.wdst.com<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">http://www.woodstockfilmfestival.com<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">http://www.woodstockart.org<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">and<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">David McDonald’s excellent documentary “<i>Woodstock: You Can’t Get to There From Here</i>”<o:p></o:p></span></div></div>http://theculturalworker.blogspot.com/2016/03/retort-magazine-and-woodstock-ny.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (JOHN PIETARO)1